


Outcast On A Cold Star

by UniverseOnHerShoulders



Series: Something Beautiful But Annihilating [3]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Female Doctor (Doctor Who), Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues, See Notes for Additional Warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-03-30
Packaged: 2018-05-19 14:26:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5970280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniverseOnHerShoulders/pseuds/UniverseOnHerShoulders
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clara's pretty sure she's got this coping thing under control. She's been discharged from therapy, and she's certain that the only doctor she needs now is her Doctor, <em>the</em> Doctor... but between the regeneration and her experiences with her echo, she's not entirely sure where the two of them stand, and both of them have to come to terms with their changed relationship.</p><p>It may just be that the Impossible Girl is about to get a lot more impossible, as uncomfortable truths are outed and demons are faced. But running away has always been her prerogative.</p><p>Hasn't it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, here is the sequel to Kissed Me Quite Insane! (at last.) It's pretty heavy to start with, but I promise that it'll get lighter later on and there will eventually be some nice fluffiness. BEAR WITH IT.
> 
> Trigger warnings will apply to each chapter, but this one is all clear.

Clara was shoving things haphazardly into a bag when her dad stuck his head around the door, a worried frown creasing his brow as he took in her purposeful actions as she crisscrossed her room, snatching items from drawers and tossing them towards her bed. 

“Clara?” he asked hesitantly, stepping into the doorway apprehensively. “What are you doing?” 

“I’m going away for a bit,” she said breezily, smiling in a way she hoped could be construed as genuine. “Just to get away, now that I’ve finished counselling. It’ll do me good.”

“But… you don’t have any money,” he said pointedly, his eyes widening slightly for emphasis. “Or ID.”

“I don’t need it, I’ll be fairly local.” _Well. Local as in, the same galaxy._ “And they’re paying.”

“Who’s _they_?” Her dad asked, eyes narrowing suspiciously, and Clara realised her mistake too late, cursing herself inwardly. “You’re not seeing someone, are you? You don’t think it’s a bit soon?”

“I… no, no I’m not, no,” she stammered, taken aback, knowing he needed reassurance or he would try to prevent her from leaving. “They’re a friend. _She’s_ a friend. Old friend. We go way back.”

“How far back?” he probed curiously, leaning against the door, his tone a forced form of casual that she recognised dimly from discussions about her exes.

“Uni! Dad, chill.” She assured him, zipping her case shut before he could argue any further, watching as he dithered uncomfortably, torn between wanting to protect his daughter and wanting to allow her a modicum of freedom following her long internment in the house.

“You’ve got your meds?” he asked finally, chewing his lip nervously.

“ _Yes_ , dad.” She lied easily, attempting to pick up the case and stumbling a few steps under the weight of it, her body unaccustomed to the physical exertion.

“Let me,” he said quietly, taking it from her hands with ease and smiling reassuringly at her, his expression flickering only slightly with doubt. “Just promise me you’ll call. Twice a day.”

“Dad.”

“Once a day?”

“ _Dad.”_

“Fine, once a week? Please?” he begged her, his eyes wide in the style that his daughter had learnt to emulate so expertly.

“ _Yes,_ dad.” She capitulated, rolling her eyes a little and following him downstairs, perching on the arm of the sofa awkwardly as she checked her phone so that she didn’t have to look at him. “I’m sorry about Linda.”

“Clara…”

“I _know_ we’ve had this discussion, dad, but I’m sorry, OK? I’m really sorry…”

“Clara, you don’t need to apologise…”

“I do, dad, I really do…” her voice trailed off, choked with emotion, her stomach clenching tightly with anxiety.

His arms wrapped around her automatically, her cheek resting against his shoulder as she recited the alphabet backwards, trying to ground herself from the panic that always consumed her when she felt anything was her fault, listening to his heart beat slowly and feeling her own pulse return to a similar rate gradually.

“I know you think it’s your fault, love. But honestly, things with us weren’t good. Don’t think they ever were. I never stopped loving your mum, and Linda resented that.” His words were soft, and she relaxed a little as her mind returned to the present, hugging him back and letting his voice soothe her.

“I’m still sorry,” she reiterated, and it was all he could do not to sigh.

“Sweetheart-” he began, but was cut off by the pealing of the doorbell, and he pulled away from Clara unwillingly, going out into the hall as she rose to her feet and began to subconsciously chew her nails nervously.

“Hello,” came the not-yet familiar voice of the Doctor, the _new_ Doctor, and she could tell her dad was taken aback from his slightly stunned tone as he responded.

“Hi, you must be ah…” he hesitated, suddenly painfully aware Clara hadn’t mentioned a name, and Clara panicked too as she prayed that this Doctor had adapted to the transition more smoothly than the last, that she wouldn’t…

“Lizzie Smith,” came the cheerful reply, and Clara let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding, heading out into the hall with her brightest smile.

“Hi!” she said, somewhat breathlessly, dithering before stepping forwards and embracing the Doctor a little awkwardly, the angles all wrong, and she pulled back almost immediately, tucking her hair behind her ears and trying to hide how flustered she felt. “I’m ready.”

“Clara…” her dad’s eyes were wet with tears and she felt her heart lurch a little as she kissed his cheek, the guilt threatening to overwhelm her as she picked up her case determinedly and smiled a sad smile at him. She had known how hard this would be, but it didn’t make it any easier.

“I’ll be fine, dad,” she said firmly, and he sighed resignedly.

“I know, just… don’t forget about school, OK? You need to make a choice about work, and…” Clara cut him off with a wave of her hand, noting the Doctor’s concerned frown and wishing her dad hadn’t broached the issue at all. “Clara, I know you think I’m fussing, but I’m your dad! It’s my _job_.”

“Dad, I know…” Clara mumbled awkwardly, her cheeks flushing scarlet as she stared at the ground, her arm going numb from the weight of her case, really just hoping he would shut up before the Doctor decided to intercede.

“You take good care of her, Lizzie,” Dave said thickly, and Clara knew he was trying not to cry, knew that he was trying to put on a brave face for her. “She’s been a bit… poorly, she needs some time to unwind.”

“I will,” the Doctor said coolly, taking the heavy bag from Clara smoothly and smiling winningly in a way that her previous incarnation would have found horrifying. “I have a duty of care, after all.”

Dave nodded, his hands clasped in front of him as he fought to compose himself. “Well then.” He said after a moment, his tone resolutely bright. “You girls have fun. I love you, darling.”

“Love you too dad,” Clara said softly, leaning up to kiss his cheek and then stepping outside, feeling butterflies of nerves and excitement flutter in her stomach as she followed the Doctor along the road to the carefully concealed TARDIS. As she stepped inside, she looked around and exhaled slowly, feeling some of the tension dissipate from her psyche as she did so. She ascended the stairs slowly, appreciatively, taking in the new console with eyes brighter than those of her last trip, looking up at the time rotor and silently offering thanks to be back where she belonged. The thump of her suitcase hitting the floor startled her from her trance, and she looked over to see the Doctor striding towards her, anger in her eyes. 

“What did your dad mean about work?” she asked, her tone almost aggressive, and Clara backed away reflexively, witty retorts dying on her lips as she did so. “You love teaching; you love your school! You can’t throw it all away or they’ve won!” 

“I know… I do… I just… I can’t…” Clara stammered, panic flooding her eyes as she Doctor loomed over her, and it was only then that the Time Lady seemed to remember herself, moving away from Clara and attempting to control her anger. 

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I know, I just… I don’t want you to try and run away like you did after Danny. I’m not here to help you avoid your problems and responsibilities.”

“That’s exactly what you’re here for,” Clara countered, her temper stirring as she stared the Doctor down with something she hoped resembled a glare. “The m- Woman Who Ran, and the Impossible Girl. That’s basically our prerogative, isn’t it? Running away?” 

“Not from the people who want to help!” the Doctor was shouting now, and the Clara of a few weeks prior would have flinched away, but she felt her temper flare, months of repression finally boiling over, and she stood a little straighter as she scowled at her furiously. 

“They _can’t_ help me! Because I can’t tell them the goddamn truth, because they’ll think I’m a headcase. I need to get this shit out of my system with you so that I can go back and be fucking normal, because I’m just a mess and I can’t deal with it! I’m lying to everyone, I’m just festering away there, and I need to sort shit out!” 

The Doctor’s face softened as she realised the truth behind Clara’s words, her anger vanishing as she took in her companion’s world-weary face and haunted eyes, understanding abruptly that Clara’s pain was such that she could aid, such that she could offer some chance of recovery.

“You _are_ a Doctor,” Clara said defiantly, anger underlying her tone as she raised her chin a little to meet the Doctor’s gaze. “So act like one.” 

“I know I am,” she acknowledged with finality. “So I will.” 

Clara’s arguments failed her, so accustomed was she to the argumentativeness of her former Scottish Doctor, and so she sunk down in the reading chair, hating the silence that signalled her losing a row. “Nice to know there’s a temper in there still,” she managed eventually, and the Doctor laughed a little. “Thought that went with the eyebrows.” 

“The eyebrows weren’t good. The temper… well, tempers can be useful, especially when my companion is so delightfully stubborn.” There was a twinkle in her eye as she spoke, and Clara smiled back automatically, a feeling of comfort overtaking her – her and the Doctor, teasing each other, just like old times. Almost.

“I prefer determined,” she quipped, and the Doctor rolled her eyes. 

“Where to then?” she asked, and Clara shrugged, her eyes narrowing as she considered the possibilities.

“Somewhere… somewhere magical.” She decided after a few moments, and the Doctor grinned excitedly, obediently tapping in coordinates and setting the TARDIS into flight. Clara looked up at the time rotor as it rose and fell, feeling her heartbeat accelerate with anticipation and knowing that finally, she was back on familiar ground, back where she was supposed to be.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a long time coming but here is chapter two! I'm working on several fics at the moment and I have uni deadlines, but I will endeavour to update more regularly.
> 
> Trigger warnings for this chapter: self harm, antidepressant usage/withdrawal, suicidal ideation, sexual abuse, illness, mental trauma.

Clara was almost completely sure she had flu. She had no idea where she could have got it from, not having visited any planets likely to have strains of the influenza virus, and so she simply suffered in silence for a number of days, her exhaustion dogging her so severely that she could barely get out of bed, let alone consider exploring new star systems, no matter how intriguing the Doctor made them sound. Instead, she lay on her back, contemplating the deep blue canopy of her bed, wondering why she felt a profound sense of unease that seemed to rock her to the very core, filling her with inexplicable dread. 

She was approximately ninety-nine percent certain she was going to die if she tried to move, and so laying here, perfectly still, seemed to be the most appropriate choice, trying to take deep, slow breaths as she did so. She needed sleep, that much she was sure of, but she’d spent last night tossing and turning, muttering under her breath as she fought off monsters that dogged her every step, their faces always turning out to be Clary. Eventually, she had abandoned all hope of rest in favour of suffering in quiet wakefulness until what constituted a reasonable hour in the TARDIS, and then she had rolled in the general direction of her nightstand in search of something to do, the room lurching sharply and her vision exploding with a thousand stars, and so she had curled up and screwed her eyes shut until it passed, convinced that death was impending and imminent. 

 _Just kill yourself now and save the suffering._  

The voice, although unexpected, was insistent and painfully familiar, that much Clara knew. It had dogged her for months now, although less aggressively of late, and she put her hands either side of her head reflexively, as though that may help to silence it.

 _Oh Clara. If it’s silence you want, just do it. Just die. It would be so easy, you could do it right here in this room, you could be dead in five minutes if you did it right. You wouldn’t suffer any more. The Doctor would have a new companion, not a headcase, not a nutjob, and she’d be so much happier without you, so much freer, because you wouldn’t be dragging her down. Your dad could get back with Linda and they’d be so happy without you interrupting, without worrying about you. It would make everyone so happy, and you wouldn’t be suffering any more. You could be with Danny and your mum, you wouldn’t be alone, and you wouldn’t be ill, just do it, Clara, you know you want to, it would be so easy, it would be painless, just die, just **die**_ **,** _just let go, come on…_  

On and on, for hours it seemed, the voice wheedled away at her, insistently nagging at her thoughts, and she tried to implement the therapy techniques she had worked on, tried to use the strategies that had always stood her in good stead during her long recovery, but she felt too weak to concentrate, fever overcoming her as she struggled against the incessant tide of whispered thoughts and insidious suggestions. Standing up unsteadily, she stumbled to her desk, fumbling through it for what she needed, for what the _voice_ needed, and it was then that consciousness slipped from her grasp, darkness embracing her like an old friend as she slid to the carpet and passed out.

 

~/~/~/~

 

When she came to, she was in an unfamiliar bed, panic rising in her chest as she attempted to sit up and found herself unable to move. She tried to speak, but her voice came out as a faint rasp, and so instead she looked from side to side carefully, realising as her eyes focused that she was in the TARDIS medical bay. 

“Clara?” the Doctor’s voice was gentle and concerned, but Clara still jumped a little as the Time Lady entered her field of vision, a pink medi-patch in one hand. “You’ve got flu, I think. Your fever broke yesterday; you’re doing better now. It’s alright.” 

“Yesterday?” Clara managed eventually, her voice gravelly from lack of use, and she felt suddenly discombobulated, trying to work out how long she’d been out and wondering how much time she had lost.

“I found you in your room three days ago, you’d fainted. You’ve been here since then.”

“Oh,” Clara murmured, and the Doctor helped her into a sitting position, holding a cup of water so that she could sip from it slowly, her voice slowly returning. “Why does my head hurt?” 

“That… might be the sedative.” The Doctor said unwillingly, her face clouding over with guilt. “I had to… there wasn’t any choice, you had an IV for fluids but you kept thrashing about. You ripped it out once, I couldn’t risk you hurting yourself again.” 

“Oh.” Clara said again, for want of a more eloquent response. “Ouch.”

“Yeah,” the Doctor agreed drily. “Ouch. I patched it up for you, it shouldn’t scar.” 

With a sudden, insurmountable feeling of anxiety, Clara felt the voice in her head stirring in response to that seemingly innocuous word, slipping into her thoughts and luring her with its soft, seductive tone.

 _Scars… scars aren’t enough… you’ve tried it before but it wasn’t enough, you weren’t strong enough… come now, Clara, wouldn’t it be easier to just let go? There are so many sharps in here, you could do it easily…_  

“Clara?” the Doctor’s tone cut into her reverie, the inner monologue quieting enough for her to focus. “Your heart rate just went through the roof. What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing,” she said, forcing her tone to stay neutral. “I mean; you did just tell me I ripped a hole in my hand. Other than that, nothing.” 

The Doctor smiled a little, the worry in her eyes still evident, turning away to adjust a setting on the side of a machine. 

“Can I get up?” Clara asked, sitting up a little way without waiting for permission and waiting for the dizziness to subside. “I feel kinda gross.”

The Doctor dithered, then nodded uncertainly, offering Clara an arm and helping her to her feet. “I’m not letting you out my sight though. No arguing.”

“Fine with me,” Clara concurred, knowing that this way there was no chance that the voice could win, no chance that she could be at risk to herself, and so she allowed herself to be led, meek and mild, to the console room, where she curled up in the reading chair. “I like that you kept this.” 

“It’s more yours than mine,” the Doctor admitted, placing a blanket over Clara’s legs gently, careful not to let her hands brush over Clara’s skin, but she still felt anxiety spark in her at the nearness, the proximity, the sudden realisation that the Doctor would’ve had to touch her while she was unconscious. She felt her vision beginning to tunnel, her chest growing tight, and she closed her eyes against the sensory overload that the TARDIS suddenly posed, rocking slowly, reciting the alphabet backwards as she had done so many times before. 

“Clara?” the Doctor’s voice was tender. “What’s wrong? Are you malfunctioning? Can you help me out?” 

“Anx…” was as much as Clara could manage in between recitations, and she saw comprehension spark in the Doctor’s eyes. 

“Anxiety attack?” she asked, and Clara nodded, still mumbling the familiar letters. The Doctor sat, cross legged, on the floor in front of her, murmuring soft words in Gallifreyan that Clara couldn’t translate, but she understood the meaning. As she returned to a calm state slowly, she met the Doctor’s gaze, noticing the concern in her eyes and feeling abruptly guilty for putting her through this. 

 _She’s worrying about you; she would be better if you were dead. You’re filthy anyway, you’re dirty, you’re vile, you’re used, you’re…_

“I’m going for a shower,” Clara announced suddenly, determinedly, thanking her voice for not betraying her by wobbling. 

“Are you sure? I don’t want any more fainting…” the Doctor chewed her lip, tilting her head to the side as she considered Clara’s stoic expression. 

“The TARDIS can work round it. I’ll be OK, I just, I really need to get clean, I really need to shower.” Clara’s tone was insistent, and the Doctor sighed. 

“Fine,” she acquiesced. “Bathroom’s where you left it.” To the TARDIS, she added silently: _don’t you dare let her fall._

Clara stood with some difficulty, stretching her aching limbs and beginning to shuffle to the bathroom. Her head really _did_ hurt, she realised, recognising the unwelcome beginnings of a migraine, and she hastened along the corridor, occasionally stumbling over her own feet, keeping one hand on the wall to guide herself. As she stepped into the warmth of the bathroom, she saw that the TARDIS had somehow secreted away the bathtub and she felt a rush of affection for the ship, patting the wall gently. “Thanks old girl,” she whispered, and the ship burbled a little in response, switching on the water in the shower as she undressed clumsily and stepped inside, noticing a seat that hadn’t been there before. Sinking into it with gratitude, she let the hot water beat down on her tired skin reassuringly, reaching for the shampoo bottle she was sure she had left here months previously and finding instead a razor that she dimly recognised as hers. Picking it up, she ran a fingertip over the four blades, arranged neatly in their safety casing, and she realised with some disappointment that it was blunt.

 _You could try anyway,_ insisted the voice. _Better to try than live another moment in this filthy, broken body; better to die slowly than lose any more of yourself; better than being dirty._

Clara shook her head angrily, groaning as her headache flared painfully, placing the razor back on the shelf and noticing a body brush she had never seen before, picking it up and running it experimentally over her arm. It felt good, the bristles the perfect sensation on her weary limbs and aching muscles, but as she worked it over her shoulder she felt her mind jolt back to the past abruptly and unbidden. 

_She was trapped in the darkened room, her clothes ripped, and Clary was running a finger up her arm in a way that Clara had once so enjoyed, had once so desired, but now she knew only that it signalled what was about to happen, and she was powerless, Clary biting down on her shoulder, marking her, claiming her all the more completely, sliding a hand down her hip..._

_Dirty,_ the voice interjected over the flashback. _Dirty, filthy, dirty, tainted, tarnished, filthy, slut._

Subconsciously, she started to scrub at herself, harder and harder, the brush beginning to feel red-hot against her skin as she stripped away layer after layer, her arms and legs and stomach turning angry, fiery red. It was then that the water in the shower shut off abruptly, and she jumped at the sudden chill, snapping out of her reverie and stumbling out, wrapping a towel around herself and staggering back to her room, curling up on the bed and scratching at her arms as she tried to remember her coping techniques. As her vision began to blur, she allowed her migraine to claim her, slipping into fitful sleep and praying that when she woke, things would be better.

 

~/~/~/~

 

Clara didn’t remember much of the next few days. Sleep brought little respite from the vicious headaches that plagued her every waking moment, and so she spent much of her time in bed, pressing stolen pain patches to her neck and wondering why they failed to shift the stubborn throbbing in her frontal cortex. She didn’t tell the Doctor, of course, because the voice in her head assured her that that would be attention seeking, and instead she mumbled excuses about being tired and curled up under her duvet until the Time Lady retreated from her bedroom and left her alone with her thoughts. The flu, although initially seeming to have been cured, was dogging her still, and she found herself alternating between too hot and too cold, the sheets around her damp with sweat.

When the hissing voice in her mind grew too much, she would crawl into the shower and scrub at her skin, barely noticing the thin trickle of crimson that ran down the plughole as she stood in the scalding water, her pain receptors screaming for her to stop but being drowned out by the voice that whispered insistently that she was _dirty, so dirty, filthy and tainted,_ and so that was how her days passed, initially, until the day the Doctor crashed into her room with a medi-pack in her hand.

“The pain patches,” she almost shouted, her eyes dark with anger. “Where are they?”

“I…” Clara stammered, unsure how to proceed, deciding it would be best to tell the truth. “I’ve been using them.”

“Why didn’t you ask? Those things are _strong,_ Clara, they’re stronger than any of your human drugs!” the Doctor yanked open Clara’s nightstand and snatched the box up, squinting at Clara’s neck as she checked for any patches currently in use, before scowling with an intensity Clara recognised from her Scottish Doctor. “Meet me in the console room. Emergency meeting.”

“Can’t we…” Clara began, unsure of her ability to walk that far, but the Doctor’s furious glare only deepened. 

“No. Console room. Five minutes.”

With that, she was gone, leaving Clara to stand up slowly, laboriously, and begin to make her way through the corridors painfully, one hand on the wall for support and the other tugging her pyjama sleeves down over her angry, cracked skin. When she entered the console room, she groaned aloud at the sudden brightness, one hand coming up to shield her eyes as she stumbled up the stairs, cracking her knee on the metal flooring but hardly noticing. As she sank into the reading chair, she felt the Doctor’s eyes boring into her, and it was only then that she gathered her thoughts enough to belatedly say “ow.” 

“Ow indeed,” the Doctor said quietly, her tone surprisingly soft. “Oh, Clara Oswald, what am I going to do with you?” 

“I don’t…” she stammered, but the Doctor only looked at her with quiet resignation until silence fell once more, broken only by Clara’s question when she realised the Doctor knew: “How long have you known?” 

“I suspected it when the flu packs didn’t work on you. When the pain patches disappeared but you didn’t mention anything, I knew then.” The Doctor leant back against the console. “Why aren’t you taking your medication?” 

“Because I got sick of being a zombie,” Clara protested weakly, knowing how feeble her excuse sounded. “I got sick of it messing with my head, and how it made me feel…” 

“Oh yes, having your brain chemicals regulated, how terrible,” the Doctor quipped somewhat cattily, and Clara frowned tearfully.

“It’s not like having them regulated… it’s like being in a bubble, and nothing can reach you. And I felt so shitty all the time…” tears began to spill down her cheeks. “I wanted to be free. That’s all. I just wanted to be free, from everything.” 

“You can’t run away from your own mind, Clara,” the Doctor said, her tone chastising, handing Clara a handkerchief carefully. “Believe me, I’ve tried.” 

“And you think I _haven’t_? You think I don’t spend every goddamn minute wishing that the stupid voice would just shut up and stop reminding me of how worthless I am?” 

“You aren’t worthless, Clara,” the Doctor said gently. “You’re so far from worthless, you’ve saved whole galaxies, thousands of beings owe you their lives.” 

“I’m _dirty,_ ” Clara’s tone was anguished as she began to sob, her hands over her eyes as she rocked backwards and forwards automatically. “I’m filthy and dirty and horrible…” 

“No, Clara… you’re not! You shower so much…” Clara’s head snapped up at that, and the Doctor sighed in exasperation. “Did you think I didn’t notice? C’mon, you’re not dirty…”

“You don’t understand…” Clara mumbled. “ _She_ made me dirty.”

The Doctor sank to the floor in front of the armchair, her eyes full of compassion as she took in her companion’s sobbing form, wanting nothing more than to lay a hand calmingly on Clara’s shoulder but understanding the panic it would invoke in her. 

“She did things, Doctor, she did things I couldn’t tell anyone, I’m sorry, I just… she did… _things_.” Clara’s voice was almost a whisper as she wept, her breathing ragged as she picked at her nails, lacking the energy to even wipe her eyes. 

“I know,” the Doctor admitted after a moment of silence, broken only by Clara’s sniffles. “I… I already knew. When I brought you back to the TARDIS, I scanned you and there were… you were… in places, and I suspected then. And when I sedated you… you kept screaming her name, kept pushing me away, and I just knew.” 

Clara bit down on her lip, shame coursing through her as she realised that the Doctor’s actions were borne of pity for her, the one thing she could never bear, the one thing she could never stand. Almost immediately, however, this was followed by anger that she had been reduced to a weak shadow, reduced to someone worthy only of charity and compassion, rather than the Doctor’s equal, who could be regarded as capable. “I don’t need your pity,” she spat viciously. “I’m not a weak willed little girl, I am _fine,_ so you can shove your pity.” 

“What?” the Doctor asked, her brows knitting together quizzically. “I’ve never pitied you, Clara. I have a duty of care and you know I take it seriously, that’s why I looked after you. Pity never came into the equation.” 

As quickly as that, Clara’s fury dissipated, and she felt the shame return, shame that the Doctor knew how truly broken she was, how vulnerable and _human_ she was, coupled with humiliation that her façade of coping had never deceived the one person she truly needed to fool. She looked at the floor, letting her hair fall over her face so that the Doctor couldn’t see her cheeks flush. “Why didn’t you say anything?” she said after a short pause. “Why didn’t you try to help?” 

“I didn’t know how, Clara.” The Doctor looked up at her sadly. “I didn’t want to touch you in case I set you off, I didn’t want to provoke any flashbacks, so I just went to the library and read and read and read. Some of the books said talking about it might help.” 

“I don’t think I can say anything,” Clara acknowledged unwillingly after a few moments. “The words… it makes it too real.”

“You could show me,” the Doctor said pensively. “I can lower the telepathic circuits, and if it’s OK you could hold my hand and show me.” 

“I… that could work,” Clara concurred, watching as the Doctor checked the monitors, flicked switches and finally pulled a lever, before settling back down in front of the chair, hand extended hesitantly to her. “I just think things?”

“You just think. And if it’s too much, you let go.” 

“Doctor?” Clara asked abruptly, her eyelashes spiked with tears. “If you could do this, why didn’t you when I was… you know. Unconscious?”

The Doctor looked at her gravely, then gave a small shrug. “It would’ve invaded your privacy. The last thing I wanted to do was hurt you even more deeply.”

Clara’s mouth formed a small “oh” of understanding and she gripped onto the Doctor’s hand without hesitation, letting the memories wash over her and trying not to flinch away from them. She could feel the Doctor’s presence in her mind, surprisingly unobtrusive, a warm manifestation of consciousness that exuded an aura of calm. She took courage from that and concentrated a little.

_Clary’s face, her words, her hands. The things she said, the things she threatened, the things she did. The pain, the feelings of shame. Her tears mixing with her blood, hot and wet under her fingertips, and the words whispered so quietly in her ear…_

_Out,_ came the Doctor’s voice in her mind. _Too much, too soon…_

The panic and fear crashed over her, and she tried to shake the images away as they threatened to overwhelm her. The Doctor’s hand was still in hers, the Time Lady’s presence still in her mind, and she felt it stir, calmness flooding through her. _Rest now, Clara,_ came the Doctor’s voice again. _You’re strong. You can come back. Come back to me. Come back to now._

Slowly, she opened her eyes, taking in the console room and the Doctor still sat before her.

“That was… helpful,” Clara said quietly. “That calmness thing. Can you do that again?”

“Other people are not medicine, Clara,” the Time Lady chastised firmly, letting go of Clara’s hand and stepping away, unable to meet her companion’s angry stare.

“You’re not ‘people.’” Clara argued. “And you’re _the_ Doctor.”

“Clara…”

“Just forget it,” she snapped, rising to her feet angrily. “I’m going to shower.”

“What, and scrub your own skin off again?” the Doctor retorted before she could stop herself, and Clara froze. “What? You think I don’t know what happens in my own ship?”

“You… you… you _spy_ on me in the shower?!” Clara managed.

“The TARDIS is concerned-”

“Good for the TARDIS.”

 “-about your mental state-”

“Which is _fucked up,_ and what?”

“-and so you need to _rest._ ” The Doctor finished, eyes narrowing. 

“ _Make me._ ” Clara spat, turning on her heel, but the Doctor was faster, her hand meeting Clara’s, a spark flickering across her skin, and the last thing she remembered as she fell forwards was the _old_ Doctor, what felt like lifetimes ago, saying “a psychic link with me? The size of my brain, it would be like dropping a piano on you.” 

The Doctor looked down at her sleeping companion regretfully. 

“I did _try_ to be gentle.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glad you're all enjoying this fic!
> 
> Trigger warnings this chapter for mental illness, anxiety and mentions of sexual and physical abuse.

When Clara woke, she was momentarily confused by her location. Whatever she was lying on was hard and uncomfortable, and she her mind flashed back to her cell instantly, panic pooling in her stomach, but as she opened her eyes and took in the soft blue light that surrounded her, she realised she was in the console room, on the floor, and that… 

“Did you knock me out?!” she asked furiously to the seemingly empty room, knowing that the Doctor would be lurking nearby, and her certainty was rewarded with the Time Lady’s appearance on the stairs, hovering nervously out of Clara’s reach. 

“Maybe,” she muttered uncomfortably, looking at the floor with protracted interest. “I thought you might hurt yourself.” 

Clara sat up swiftly, brushing aside her dizziness, noticing the tenderly-placed cushion under her head and the blanket draped over her, but it wasn’t enough to assuage her anger at the Doctor. “You _knocked me out,_ without my consent… what the _fuck_ is wrong with you?” 

“Clara, it was for your own good…” the Doctor began, her tone placating as she backed away a little, hands held up defensively. 

“Oh, there we go. Now you sound like _him_ again, he was always like this, always trying to wrap me up in cotton wool. Well I don’t need it. I don’t need to be wrapped up and protected from myself, because I am _fine._ ” Clara stood up, shouting now, her voice echoing around the room as she stalked around the console towards the Doctor. “I am _so_ fine, and _you are not him,_ so stop trying to _be_ him!” 

“Clara, I thought we’d discussed this before,” the Doctor’s tone was heart-breaking, her eyes full of sadness, but Clara’s anger was still burning through her veins and it did little to quell the flames or calm her temper. “The last time I changed… I thought we’d worked through this.” 

“You don’t understand, do you?” Clara spat. “That was _different,_ that was so different, because… because…” 

“Because I was the same gender?” the Doctor asked quietly, and Clara flushed crimson with shame, unwilling to admit the truth. “I might look different, but I’m still the same person, Clara.” 

“No, you’re not!” she argued stubbornly, ignoring her feelings of embarrassment and all but stamping her foot with rage. “Because he wouldn’t do this, he wouldn’t be all… caring and nice, he’d tell me to cut the whining, he’d be cross, he wouldn’t just…” 

“Do you really think you mean that little to me, Clara Oswald? That I would’ve just been angry?” the Doctor said quietly, affixing Clara with a sorrowful look. “I have a duty of care.”

“Stop doing that.” Clara said firmly, holding up a finger warningly. 

“Doing what? Caring?”

“No. Saying he’s… he wasn’t you.” Clara leant against the console, her eyes narrowing as she considered the new Doctor critically. “You aren’t him, he isn’t you.” 

“Clara… we’re the same person. I know you might find that difficult, but… we are. He’s me. I’m him. Gender doesn’t define that; it doesn’t define who I am.” The Doctor’s voice was calm in the face of Clara’s anger, keeping her tone measured as she tried to explain. “Time Lords are genderfluid. Missy and I were considered unusual, for a very long time, as we didn’t ever experience that change. Hence her previous choice of name. She was very, very confident, for a long time, that she’d beaten the system. I thought I was just unlucky. But now… here I am. It doesn’t mean the last 2000 years haven’t shaped me, it doesn’t mean I don’t care about you just as deeply.” 

“But…” Clara tried to interject, her fury fading abruptly as she tried to take in what the Doctor was saying and feeling suddenly ashamed of her short temper. 

“Same software, different face,” the Doctor said softly, smiling slightly. “I’m still me. Just a bit less liney, and a bit less Scottish.” 

“Could you be Scottish again? If you wanted to be?” Clara asked, a hint of sadness in her tone as she gave the Doctor a long look, trying to silently convey how much she missed the angry Glaswegian accent she had initially so disliked. 

“I guess so,” the Doctor shrugged, and attempted a Scottish twang. “How’s that sounding?” 

Despite herself, Clara laughed a little. “Terrible. I think I can live with the posh. Just maybe be a bit less nice.” 

“But I only just got used to the hugging,” the Doctor groaned, rolling her eyes. “And you aren’t doing hugs. I can’t keep up with you humans.” 

“I’m not, but that’s not the point. _I_ can’t keep up with you Time Lords and your gender… stuff.” 

“Genderfluidity.” 

“That.” Clara wrinkled her nose slightly as she considered the Doctor. “I’m still mad at you, you know.” 

“I’m sorry.” The Time Lady sighed. “I shouldn’t have done what I did, I just didn’t want you hurting yourself.” The _again_ was silent but implied, and Clara cast her eyes down as she felt guilt wash over her. 

“I’m sorry too,” Clara said softly, running a finger gently along the edge of the console as she spoke. “For being difficult.” 

“You’re my Impossible Girl,” the Doctor assured her playfully. “I would expect nothing less.” 

“No, I mean… all this… it was kind of my fault,” she waved her hands vaguely at the Doctor in what she hoped was an all-encompassing way. 

“What? The boobs and stuff?” the Doctor frowned at her in puzzlement. “You’re a teacher, aren’t you meant to be good at explaining?” 

“No! Well, yes, the boobs, and… other things. The regeneration.” Clara explained, looking studiously at the floor and trying to steady her breathing as she felt her brain responding reflexively to the situation, flooding her system with adrenaline. 

“Clara…” the Doctor’s voice was gentle. “One thing. OK, two things. First thing: sit down, you’ve gone a funny colour. Second thing: this – was – not – your – fault.” 

“But it was,” Clara felt tears well up, threatening to spill down her cheeks, and she turned away and sank into an armchair, surreptitiously swiping her sleeve over her face. “I brought Clary into our lives.” 

“Clara… you didn’t force me to take that bullet,” the Doctor said firmly. “That was my choice alone.” 

“But I… if I hadn’t ever come into your life…” 

“If you hadn’t ever come into my life then I would have died at Trenzalore as Bow-Tie. Or before then, as any of my past selves. You’ve saved me so many times, Clara, so… just for the hell of it, I saved you too.” She smiled at her companion before continuing. “ _You_ didn’t bring Clary into our lives. _Missy_ did. Missy set the whole thing up. Let’s be honest, the regeneration was quite a welcome change. It was exhausting being angry all the time, and those eyebrows! Clary did me a favour, if I’m honest.” 

“Clary…” Clara’s voice cracked as she repeated the word, her tears beginning to fall as she considered the name and all it had come to represent. “It _was_ my fault, Doctor. If I hadn’t been so reckless, so _impossible_ , maybe Missy wouldn’t have done what she did, she wouldn’t have weaponised Clary… It’s all my fault…” 

“Clara, no,” the Doctor interjected abruptly. “Don’t think like that.” 

“It _was_ my fault, I deserved what I got,” Clara mumbled, biting her nails subconsciously as she spoke. “I got reckless, and I was punished for that. And it ended up harming you too, the harming me… I just… hurting you…”

“Clara, you didn’t deserve any of what happened to you. What happened to you was because of Missy and her sick games, not because of anything you did. You were – and indeed, are – the best you can possibly be, and Missy is just, well, Missy. What happened didn’t harm me; you made me better, Clara. I don’t have knobbly knees or grey hair any more, I think that was a win-win.” 

“I meant the echoes,” Clara explained through her small sobs, the Doctor’s quip falling flat. “They’re gone. You’re at risk, they can’t save you… they died...” 

“The echoes had their lives, Clara. They were happy, and some of them saved me, and that was enough. Besides, you’ve forgotten one very important thing.” She smiled at Clara, who only surveyed her with a confused look. “You’re Clara Prime.” 

“No I’m not,” Clara said reflexively, cringing back against the back of the chair. “I’m not, I’m not, she was.” 

“Who?” the Doctor asked in genuine confusion. “Clary?” 

“She’s the Prime now,” Clara buried her face in her hands as she recited the words robotically. “She’s the Prime, I’m nobody, she’s the original, I’m just a copy.” 

“Clara,” the Doctor reached for her hand, but she flinched away as though she had been burned, the skin-to-skin contact only milliseconds long, but enough for the Doctor to see a flash of what was happening inside Clara’s head. “You miss her.” 

“I…” Clara’s tears halted as she frowned at the Doctor wrathfully. “No spying! That’s below the belt, even for you!”

“I didn’t mean to, I forgot to… the circuits are still on. How can you miss her?” the Doctor stood up as she spoke, busying herself with the console determinedly but still feeling Clara’s glare burning into her back as she raised the telepathic circuits once more. 

“You wouldn’t understand,” Clara said bitterly after a few moments of contemplation. “It’s a _human_ thing, probably.”

“Try to explain.” The Doctor’s tone was firm as she met Clara’s gaze. “For me.” 

Clara sighed. “I miss the person she _was._ Not the person she _became._ Pre-Missy, she was just… she was amazing. And then after, after everything she did… sometimes I still hoped. Even when she hurt me, I would just think about before, and it was enough. Sometimes.” 

“But the things she did…”

“ _You wouldn’t understand._ ” Clara snapped. The Doctor raised an eyebrow delicately. 

“My best friend’s tried to kill me. Several hundred times. Doesn’t mean she’s not still my best friend.” 

“But she’s never held you down and… and…” Clara’s sobs engulfed her, choking her words into silence as she wept into her hands, her breathing ragged and uneven as she fought to regain her self-control. “I’m s-sorry…” she stammered after a few minutes. “I _know_ it wasn’t her doing it, I _know_ that Missy got to her, so I try to tell myself it was just a monster with Clary’s face, but then… some days, I still jump when I see my face in a mirror, I still have the nightmares about her, but I know she never _meant_ to do any of it.” 

“I can’t say I understand, Clara. But I can say I’m here. And I can also say that I have a stock of nice clean handkerchiefs under your chair, because your hands aren’t strictly that absorbent.” The Doctor reached down and passed the box to Clara, who took out a pale pink handkerchief and blew her nose, then looked up at the Doctor with curiosity.

“How are you so calm about this?” Clara asked, her tone vaguely dangerous as she narrowed her eyes at the Time Lady, who failed to note the warning signs. “Everything Missy did?” 

“She’s my best friend, Clara. That means something where I come from.”

“I thought she was your _nemesis_. Then again, I thought _I_ was your best friend.” She hated how whiny she sounded, hated how petulant this argument had become, but somehow the words found their way out unbidden. 

“Clara… are you _jealous_?” the Doctor asked incredulously. “They’re different things… you’re different, to me!”

“I know, Doctor.” Clara said bluntly. “I get it. I’m just a boring old human whereas she’s the last of your race. I just thought what she did was at least worthy of your anger.” 

“My anger? My anger doesn’t come into this!” the Doctor could feel her temper flaring, conversely to her words, and she fought to remain calm, determined not to let Clara see her fall apart. “What, you want me to go off and avenge you?” 

“No!” Clara retorted. “Maybe! Yes, OK!” 

“Clara Oswald, feminist, wants a m- wait.” The Doctor paused mid-diatribe as she remembered herself. “Clara Oswald, feminist, wants another woman to fight her battles, well, that’s a no from me!” 

“The Doctor, Time Lady, won’t even raise a goddamn _finger_ to help her best friend!” Clara shouted, turning on her heel and stamping down the stairs back to her bedroom, and the Doctor knew there was no point in following her, instead letting her go with quiet resignation. 

Once she was quite sure she was alone, she punched the console hard, smashing her fist into the metal, spewing Gallifreyan expletives as she took out her fury on the machine, spitting curses as she pictured Missy’s face and the things she had done, imagining the things she would like to do to her the next time they met. 

The TARDIS beeped at her in a pained manner and she realised, abruptly, that there was another solution, pulling a screen towards her while offering silent apologies to the time machine, promising to make it up to her as she considered a course of action. Typing in the coordinates, she paused for a moment, weighting up the possibilities. She could change time to save Clara, but were the ramifications too severe? On the one hand, the opportunity to prevent any of this suffering from occurring, the chance to save Clara from the torment that dogged her. On the other… the universe’s consequences for doing so, for changing time so seriously. But if it was worth it to see Clara smile again, to see her being her old self, to stop things happening to her that were too awful to consider… could she justify that? 

 _Well, there’s no harm in just_ looking _, is there?_ The Doctor told herself, releasing the handbrake and setting the TARDIS into flight, taking a deep breath before she ventured out into the warm September air, leaning in the entrance to an alleyway and surveying the street before her. A row of nightclubs and takeaways, brightly lit by the orange glow of streetlights, and the occasional drunken revellers stumbling along, nothing of note, except…

There she was.

Even from a distance, the Doctor could tell that Clara didn’t want to be there, following her colleagues unwillingly. Her shoulders were slumped in resignation as she meandered after them, checking her phone absentmindedly, tottering tipsily on heels that seemed impossibly high for her tiny frame to walk in. As she walked under a streetlamp, the Doctor took in her smile, the way her eyes were still full of light, and she felt her hearts break as she contrasted this Clara to the one who was undoubtedly tossing and turning in her TARDIS bedroom, unable to sleep as her demons plagued her.

She watched as Clara disappeared down the steps to a club, knowing what would happen within, knowing that hours later, Clara would leave with Clary, and her world would be blown apart in the following months. It would be so easy to intervene, so easy to step in and make a tiny change, divert one or other woman and prevent the entire thing… but she knew she had no right. She sighed sadly, leaning against a wall and trying to ignore her compulsion to alter fixed events. 

“You alright?” 

Her head snapped up as she took in the girl stood in front of her with a shock of recognition: petite, dark hair, and a sequined dress. _Clary._ How easy it would be, she considered, to knock her out, to ensure she never reached the club, to protect Clara… a moment of impulsive madness to save Clara… 

“I’m fine,” she managed in response. “Just… got a lot going on.” 

“You should come have a drink then,” Clary said brightly, holding out a hand trustingly, and oh, it would be so, _so_ simple… 

“Can’t,” she said gruffly, stepping back towards the TARDIS and tucking her hands into her pockets to prevent them acting of their own accord. “Sorry.” 

“Another time, perhaps?” Clary said with a seductive smile, and the Doctor felt herself smiling back automatically, unable to resist the familiar dimples and their infectious joy. 

“Another time,” she agreed, the truth of her words ringing in her ears as she stepped back into the shadows and slipped inside the TARDIS, releasing the handbrake and throwing the time capsule back into the abyss of the vortex. 

 _You’re going to burn galaxies together,_ Missy had said. Was this what she had meant? Was this what she had been referring to? 

The Doctor sighed and sank into the reading chair, resting her head in her hands.

“Clara, my Clara,” she murmured. “What are we going to do?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who is sticking with me through this story, especially The Driver, who faithfully comments on every chapter. You rock.
> 
> This chapter was the result of a blinding flash of inspiration surrounding the episodes The Zygon Invasion & The Zygon Inversion, so it features canon divergence.
> 
> Trigger warnings for mental trauma, self harm and abuse.

_Nightmare Scenario._  

The Doctor’s words rang in Clara’s ears as she sat on the train back from Blackpool, one leg jiggling agitatedly. The Doctor had been insistent that this weekend should be restful, that she should go home and visit her family and have time to be normal, but then… they had received Osgood’s text, and now all bets were off. Of course, the Doctor had stubbornly insisted that she stay in Lancashire, which had only made her all the more determined to return to London, but now she was stuck on the train with no way of contacting UNIT, trying not to worry about how the Time Lady would respond when she found out that Clara had returned and put herself in danger once again. She had wanted to do this, to prove herself to the Doctor, and so she had impulsively got on the train alone, determined to show that she was well on the way to recovery and to returning to her old self, but now she felt doubts creeping in. 

She drummed her fingers impatiently on her knee, trying to concentrate on her book, on music, on anything other than the ceaseless tide of her thoughts, but she eventually settled for staring out the window distractedly, watching the countryside slip by and occasionally shaking herself from her reverie for long enough to remember to change trains. When she disembarked in the hubbub of London Waterloo, she was abruptly reminded of the chaotic bustle of London, of her anonymity, of the concentrated disinterest of the crowd to her presence, and she wrestled with her panic as she fought her way to the bus stop, stepping into the cramped interior and focusing on her breathing as they rumbled towards Peckham. 

The streets grew increasingly familiar as they crawled through the traffic, soothing Clara’s anxiety, and when she finally stepped off at her stop, she felt a warm sense of comfort take her over as she hastened towards her flat, heading across the recreation ground and checking her phone as she did so. Anything to distract her from the prospect of facing her flat alone, the flat where she had been so happy before Clary’s intervention, the flat which now held daunting memories that she would need all her concentration to overcome. 

 _The Doctor: 127 Missed Calls._

She sighed in exasperation and clicked her voicemails, lifting the phone to her ear, letting the first message play as she began to trek up the stairs laboriously, turning a corner sharply and nearly tripping over Sandeep, sat sadly on the stairs with his head in his hands. He looked up at her mournfully, his bottom lip quivering as he affixed her with a look of utmost bewilderment. 

“Hello,” he said sadly, and Clara smiled at him nervously, wondering why he was sat outside on the cold, draughty stairs. 

“Sandeep, hello. You okay?” she asked, slipping her phone back into her pocket as she looked him over with concern, grateful for the distraction from the prospect of returning to her flat. 

“I can’t find my mummy and daddy,” he explained, looking up at her trustingly, relying on Clara to make everything alright, and in that moment she realised this was something she could do. She smiled at him a little more confidently as she adjusted her coat, trying to step into the role that the old Clara would have taken, that of protector, that of teacher, that of someone more confident than she remembered being. 

“Well, why don’t you wait here, and I can go see if I can find them?” she said kindly, and Sandeep nodded shyly, his belief in her bolstering her as she stepped into the dark interior of his family’s flat. 

“Hello?” she asked, hoping she sounded bolder than she felt, noticing a vague prickling on the back of her neck and wondering if she’d made a mistake coming in here alone, groping blindly for the light switch as she felt her anxiety stir in response to the all-encompassing blackness. “Hello?” 

Distracted by her task, Clara failed to notice Sandeep’s father appear behind her as silently as a ghost, staring her down with a curious blank look. Clara realised, faintly, that something wasn’t quite right, but she forced herself to smile, attempting to maintain her confident façade, keeping her tone light and trying to ignore her growing sense of terror. “Oh! Sorry. Er, your little boy is out there. He couldn’t find you.” 

She watched in puzzlement as he left the flat wordlessly, Sandeep’s mother coming into the hall and smiling in somewhat menacing way at Clara. “We can take him.” 

Sandeep’s scream cut through Clara like a knife as he was carried back into the hallway on his father’s shoulders, kicking and trying to get free, and it was then that she knew that something was very, very wrong, that she needed to flee, but found herself unable to move, stricken by fear. She tried to take a deep breath, finding her lungs slightly unwilling to cooperate as the panic rose in her, choking off her air supply. “Is… is he OK?” she managed after a few seconds, her throat constricting slightly. 

“Everything’s fine,” Sandeep’s mum said calmly, and it was only then that Clara saw the creature behind her, comprehension dawning that she had walked carelessly into a trap like a lamb to the slaughter. She started towards the door desperately, fear lancing through her chest, but the Zygon was faster, zapping her into immobility, unconsciousness tugging at her insistently as she realised that there was another person there… another… 

“Hello, Clara. My name is Bonnie.”

The scream died in her throat as the Zygon zapped her again, the world turning dark as the blackness consumed her.

 

~/~/~/~

 

Clara sat up abruptly, the sleep leaving her and her breath coming in short gasps as the nightmare faded from her memory. She was back in her flat, and although she didn’t recall getting into bed, that was such a frequent occurrence now that it wasn’t enough to panic her immediately. She looked around, trying to focus on her surroundings and calm down, but it was then that she noticed the alarm clock’s digits were upside down. Panic flooded through her once more as she put her head in her hands, closing her eyes tightly and praying that this would prove to be another nightmare. 

“Clara. Clara!” the Doctor’s voice was curiously disembodied but it was enough to give her courage, and she stumbled along the hall into the lounge, crouching before the TV as she heard a horrifyingly familiar voice play through the speakers. 

“You’re breaking up!” 

Recollection flooded through her as she recalled the Zygon, recalled the trap she had walked into so willingly, recalled… her heart thudded painfully. Her double. Clary’s double. The same lipstick, the same wide, cruel smirk that had been commonplace throughout her time in the… she realised she was back in another cell, of sorts, trapped in her flat once more, and had it not been for the Doctor’s words, she would have abandoned all hope, lapsing back into her old coping habits and scratching at her skin furiously. 

“Clara, please, just go back to the TARDIS and keep yourself safe. They keep saying my plane is never going to land, but I like a challenge, work best under pressure. Just keep safe, for me!” the TV crackled with static and Clara tried to control her terror as she focused on the Doctor’s words, trying to take comfort in the familiar tone and not succumb to blind terror. 

“I’m sorry. But Clara’s dead.” 

 _Well,_ Clara thought. _I may as well be. I probably will be soon, anyway. If it’s that or this hell, I’ll take death._

“It’s your decision, Doctor. Truth, or consequences.” 

The TV screen came to life, a plane in the crosshairs of what she could assume was her double’s weapon, and she lunged for the set desperately, deciding to make a final attempt to save the Doctor before she died. The picture lurched and a missile exploded, harmlessly, in a patch of empty sky, relief flooding Clara momentarily before she realised Bonnie was reloading. She didn’t have the physical strength to rock the TV again, and so she tried desperately to concentrate on her finger, forcing the panic from her mind as she focused, willing the double to remain motionless. Sweat beaded on her brow with the exertion, before she felt Bonnie’s presence probe forcefully into her mind and her attention wavered at the intrusion, the missile bursting forth and transforming the plane into a spectacular fireball. 

Clara felt hopelessness burn through her, curling up on the sofa as she realised that her best friend was dead, and it was her fault, that she should have tried harder, should have saved her. Bonnie’s sense of arrogance pushed its way into her mind and she recoiled mentally, her hands covering her ears as she began to rock comfortingly backwards and forwards, resigning herself to her death as she did so. It was inevitable, that much was certain. She would die at her own hand, in the way that it should have been all those months before, and she felt her panic crystallise into perfect calm as she contemplated her death analytically, praying only that it wouldn’t hurt. Weeks of constant suffering had reduced her final wish to that one simple request, although she supposed she could endure one final moment of agony before death welcomed her as an old friend. 

As she felt her panic ebb away slightly, enough for her to retain control of her faculties, she realised that since her death was set in stone, she could afford to have a little fun. One last hurrah. A final blaze of abrupt glory. Who knew, it may even bring her last moments tantalisingly closer. 

She pushed her mind outwards aggressively, forcing her double’s concentration to lapse, and it was then that she heard the Doctor’s voice and realised the truth. 

“You’re – argh!” Clara sensed the double’s change of form, followed by her fury, knowing that she’d done enough to push her buttons sufficiently. “You’re dead.”

“And you just shifted back to your normal form. Which means something messed with your mind.” The Doctor’s tone was triumphant. “Clara, if you’re in there, hold on. Stay safe. Remember your techniques.” 

“Techniques? What techniques? What is she hiding?" Bonnie’s tone was clipped, the enunciation clear, and Clara felt her stomach lurch with fear at the familiarity of it and all it represented. She realised abruptly that if the Doctor was alive, her death was no longer definite, and understood that now Bonnie had the means to harm her, the motive to exploit her suffering, and that her own worst nightmares were about to come true. 

“If you hurt her, I will destroy you,” the Doctor growled, the threat lost in her gentle accent, but Clara appreciated the sentiment nonetheless, closing her eyes to the argument as she lay on the sofa and tried to lock her mind away from her Zygon duplicate in a way she recalled the Doctor teaching her an age ago. 

“No, Doctor.” Bonnie sneered. “I will destroy her, and then I shall kill you, and then the world will be mine.”

 

~/~/~/~

 

When the TV next came to life, Clara was sat on the sofa chewing her nails, reciting the alphabet backwards under her breath as she prayed that her mental defences would hold, that Bonnie would be unable to access the worst of the memories. 

“Hello,” came Bonnie’s voice, and then there was her face, larger than life, achingly familiar but still enough to instil fear in her as she took in the cruel smirk, the dark lipstick and the wide, dark eyes that she had come to instinctively cringe from. Reflexively, Clara seized the remote in a shaking hand and tried to switch the TV off, feeling her pulse skyrocket as she did so. 

“Oh, there’s no point turning over. There’s nothing better on the other side. My, don’t you have some ghastly memories in here? I did some rummaging earlier. All that pain… all that suffering… I do hope you like the lipstick, I chose it especially.” Bonnie’s smirk only grew as she felt Clara’s heartbeat escalate further, the blood pounding in her ears, regarding Clara cruelly.

“Especially for what?” Clara asked, with more bravery than she felt.

“I can’t access some of the more useful memories.” Bonnie said simply.

“So?” 

“So, am I going to have to make you scream? Or are you going to comply, like a good little girl?” Bonnie tilted her head to the side and gave Clara a look that she recognised immediately from her memories, realising Bonnie was more than willing to follow through on her threats but deciding to attempt to keep her cool. 

“What if I don’t want to comply? Are you going to kill me?” 

Bonnie laughed unkindly. “Oh no, Clara. Because that’s what you want. And this little game is about what _I_ want, and I want that information.” 

“So do your worst.” Clara chanced, raising her head defiantly and taking a long, deep breath as she steeled herself for the impending onslaught. 

 _Pain. White hot, lancing through her scalp as her head smashed into the wall, Clary’s snarl echoing in her ears, the angry words spilling over her as she was punished for her mistake. The knowledge of what would come next…_  

“The Osgood box is in the Black Archive! You need to go to the Black Archive!” Clara gasped, and the memory subsided a little, replaced with a sense of cockiness. 

“How do I get in?” Bonnie probed, flooding Clara’s brain with more vicious words and wandering hands, more memories of blood and darkness, and it was all she could do not to scream, not to writhe from the mental agony as the words left her involuntarily. 

“It’s… it’s keyed to my body print!” she shrieked, tears coursing down her cheeks as she clutched her head in desperation. 

“Well then Clara. Thank you for your cooperation. I think I’ll bring you along, in case your little friend needs persuasion.” The screen went blank, and Clara lay on the sofa, her head spinning as she tried to process what she’d done, that she’d betrayed the Doctor once again and jeopardised everything with her weakness. She reached for her wrist automatically, digging her nails into the soft flesh of her forearm and focusing on the physical sensations rather than the guilt that plagued her, seeking solace in the acute pain that burst in her muscles. 

She felt her her fragile sense of self erode even further as she realised that her courage had at last failed her completely, that her role as the saviour of the Doctor was over. She was useless as a companion if she couldn’t even keep a simple secret. She should have resisted, she should have fought back, but instead she had crumbled, instead she had allowed the past to overcome her… she was weak, and the Doctor deserved better. _Weak. Stupid. Weak. Useless. Weak._  

She didn’t know how long she lay there, eyes closed, nails drawing blood from her arm as she repeated the words to herself silently, but she was abruptly aware of an influx of light, the brightness searing her irises through her lids, and she opened them slowly to find herself in the Black Archive, a Zygon’s hand around her throat. 

“Tell me, or she dies.” Bonnie threatened, though Clara sensed the emptiness of the threat, the unwillingness to succumb to Clara’s demands for the cool release of death, her dominance reminding her so strongly of Clary that she felt her legs buckle, her knees connecting with the floor painfully as she closed her eyes again, choking on the memories. She didn’t notice the Doctor entering the room, didn’t hear her response, instead keeping her gaze fixed submissively on the floor as Bonnie smirked and stalked and snarled, the Doctor countering her coolly, the words washing past Clara as she held her position. 

The Doctor’s face swam into her field of vision what felt like hours later, eyes full of concern. “Clara?” she asked softly. “Clara, it’s over. We’re safe. Earth is safe.” 

“B…” Clara managed, her eyes squeezing shut tight against the panic, desperate to know whether she was safe, but knowing that the certainty would do little to quell her anxiety or suppress the memories that were now swimming to the surface, memories she had attempted to hide away for months. Shame overwhelmed her, despite the Doctor’s kind smile, and she shook her head to try and dislodge the emotions that seethed in her brain angrily. 

“Bonnie saw the light, Clara. She’s on our side now. She feels bad for what she did. I know that probably doesn’t help, but she does.” The Doctor’s voice was quiet, and Clara nodded automatically, the Doctor’s words offering little solace. 

“Home,” she said quietly but insistently. “I want… home.” 

“We can do that,” the Doctor concurred. “It’s alright. Come on.” 

Clara faintly remembered stumbling outside, back into the autumn sunlight, and being bundled carefully into the back of a Range Rover with the Doctor. She recalled someone helping her up to her flat, and the Doctor’s promise that she would be _right back_ and _not to worry,_ that there would be soldiers right outside if she needed anything, and so she nodded, weakly, allowing herself to be led into her bedroom placidly. 

It was too much for her to process. She had been too close to the edge, had realised far too much about the nature of the threat she posed to the Doctor, to come back. She was a weak link, and her errors would surely cost the Doctor her life down the line. She was vulnerable, and that made her a liability to her friends, not to mention the toll she had taken on her family, destroying her father’s marriage and nearly bankrupting him in the process. She had created the echoes – so confident, so self-assured back then; although her willingness to die for a cause had never waned – to save the Doctor, had sacrificed herself once in lieu of watching the Doctor die, so she could do it again. She _would_ do it again, and this time there would be no way back, no second chances for her to mess up, because she would be thorough. 

She got up and went to the bathroom, rifling through her medicine cabinet calmly, being rewarded with the two boxes she needed and taking them back through to her bedroom, placing them neatly on the bed and lining them up adjacent to the pattern on the bedspread. She padded through to the kitchen with cool detachment, retrieving a bottle from the cupboard by the fridge and then returning to her room and sitting, cross legged, on the bed. She took out a notepad, uncapping a pen with her teeth and feeling serenity wash over her for the first time in months as she accepted her fate and began to write, determinedly and neatly, copying out two notes and laying them carefully on her bedside table. 

Unscrewing the lid of the vodka, she placed the bottle between her legs and started to pop pills from their packets, piling them in front of her in a mound of white and red, waiting until she had enough for a handful and then shoving them into her mouth, washing them down with a swig of alcohol and grimacing at the taste. She repeated the actions methodically, over and over, until the pile was gone and the bottle spilled onto the duvet, her head spinning as the spirits took effect.

“Doctor…” she mumbled incoherently, her head lolling back on the pillows as she let herself slip away, pleasantly surprised to find that dying was peaceful as falling asleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's still reading this story! Love to you all.
> 
> Trigger warnings for suicide and vomiting.

The Doctor burst into Clara’s room, immediately noticing the clinical, chemical smell and taking in the sight before her with horror: Clara, slumped across her pillows, unconscious, her face a mask of absolute peace, one hand dangling uselessly over the edge of the bed and her fingertips resting on a crumpled, brightly coloured box. An empty bottle of vodka lay on the bedcovers, and she cast it aside as she rushed to Clara’s side, checking for a pulse and finding one, faint but discernible, sighing a little in relief before looking to Osgood for guidance. 

“Well?” she snapped, her tone unintentionally brusque. “What do I do?” 

“I…” Osgood scooped up the empty boxes, scanning them urgently for anything that could help. “These are aspirin. And diazepam. It’s out of date.” 

“Great; what do I _do_?” the Doctor barked, panicking as she considered the prospect that she could lose Clara forever, cursing herself for leaving her alone in the flat and not insisting that they stay together. “How do I help?”

“You…” Osgood looked stricken, taking a puff of her inhaler. “You need to make her vomit, get it out of her system.” 

“How do I do that?” the Doctor asked urgently. “Osgood! Snap out of it.” 

“You… you need to put your fingers down her throat,” she managed, and the Doctor put her hand on Clara’s cheek, steeling herself for the invasive physical act before realisation dawned. 

“I can give her the urge to vomit instead. Telepathically. It should still work…” she thought aloud, and Osgood shook her inhaler and used it again. 

“Move her into the bathroom, then, and do it,” she said bravely. “I’ll call an ambulance.” 

“No,” Bonnie interjected from the doorway, mirroring Osgood’s inhale, surveying Clara’s form and feeling guilt flood her new body, knowing that she was responsible for this. “This is my fault. _I’ll_ do it.” 

The Doctor nodded, lifting Clara into the bathroom and laying her on the cool tiles by the toilet before placing her hands on her temples. _Come on,_ she thought to Clara. _Stay with me, don’t you dare… come on, spit them out…_

Clara twitched and she retched over the bowl, spewing up a plethora of tablets, choking as she tried to draw breath before gagging again, the Doctor rubbing her back slowly, trying to offer comfort wordlessly. She held back Clara’s hair with one hand, murmuring reassurance as her companion vomited time and time again until there was nothing left to expel from her stomach, tears tracking down her cheeks silently as she did so. 

“You’re alright, Clara,” the Doctor murmured. “I’m here, we found you. Come on. You’re alright.” 

“Don’t…” Clara rasped, gasping for breath as she tried to push the Doctor away feebly. “Don’t… want… here…” 

The Doctor’s hearts shattered at the words, at the sentiment behind them, but she only wrapped her arms around Clara more reassuringly, stroking her hair gently and trying not to let her emotions overwhelm her, instead focusing on what her friend needed. Clara needed her to be calm, needed her to stay strong, and so she was: murmuring gentle platitudes to her, reassuring her, trying to overlook the words she had cast between them. Clara didn’t speak again until the paramedics arrived, but when they burst into the bathroom, her hand clenched around the Doctor’s, drawing her back to awareness from the detached place her mind had retreated to. 

“Don’t…” she managed, coughing. “Not… tell… dad…” 

The Doctor felt herself nod against her better judgement, supervising the paramedics critically as they helped Clara onto a stretcher and offered her an oxygen mask, answering their questions as best as she could. No, Clara wasn’t on medication. No, she hadn’t attempted this before. Yes, she had a history of mental illness, although her voice wobbled at that one. No, she wasn’t family, but she had a duty of care, and she wanted to come in the ambulance, she _insisted_ on coming in the ambulance. As they wheeled Clara out to the lift, she noticed the notes on the bedside table, snatching them up and shoving them into her pocket as she followed them outside.

“Clear this up.” she said firmly to the Osgoods, before taking her seat in the back of the vehicle and reaching for Clara’s hand again, trying to offer silent reassurance, only letting go when they arrived in the hospital and she was consigned to the waiting room. She pulled out the crumpled paper, smoothing it carefully, feeling her hearts break as she tried to take in the neatly written words.

 

_Dear Doctor,_

_I know you will be angry when you read this, and for that I am sorry. I just cannot face suffering any more, cannot face watching my pain becoming your burden, and while this will hurt you for a while, it will be for the best. I know that you’re going to be furious, and you’re going to be sad, but don’t let this change you, because you need to be brave. This is me trying to do something right, me trying to die right, so that no one else, here or anywhere, will suffer. This is my choice, Doctor. This is not anyone’s fault, so you will not insult my memory; there will be no revenge. You have not failed in your duty of care, because I am relieving you of it. Be a Doctor. Heal yourself. For me._

_With love,_

_Your Impossible Girl,_

_Clara_

She sensed rather than saw the person sink into a chair beside her as she reread the note, her eyes scanning over the words that she had already memorised.

“I’m sorry,” Kate murmured, placing a hand gently on the Doctor’s arm. “I’m so sorry.” 

“Why?” the Doctor asked, her tone flat. “This wasn’t your fault. You weren’t the one that left her alone.” 

“You couldn’t have known…” Kate offered, and the Doctor stood up agitatedly, beginning to pace the corridor as guilt gnawed at her conscience unrelentingly. 

“I _should_ have known, Kate! She’s my friend, she was at risk, I should have known not to leave her… I’ve let her down.” The Doctor sighed, her eyes filling with tears which she fought to keep from spilling. “And you didn’t… she said she…” 

“She wanted to go, Doctor,” she said gently, sighing softly. “Obviously she was upset to… not.” 

“I can’t stand this,” the Time Lady admitted unwillingly, wringing her hands. “Seeing her hurting, and knowing I can’t help her.” 

“We can take care of her, Doctor. She needs time to recover from this, and you can’t offer her what we can.” Kate held up a hand, stopping the Doctor from protesting. “No, you can’t. Not unless you have world-class therapists in that blue box of yours, and somehow I doubt that. We can spend time working with her, Doctor, we can help her to come to terms with this.” 

“And what about me?” the Doctor asked quietly. “How am I supposed to come to terms with this?” 

Kate’s words failed her momentarily. “We can… we can help you too,” she stammered, taken aback by the Doctor’s honesty. “If you want that.” 

“No,” the Doctor said firmly. “No, you need to concentrate on Clara. I’ll deal with this in my way.” 

“How? By getting in your box and running away?” Kate raised an eyebrow, silently communicating her disregard for the Doctor’s coping strategies. 

“No! Yes! I don’t know, Kate, you just need to fix Clara, OK? Don’t worry about me, you just _focus on her,_ ” she commanded decisively, before adding with an afterthought: “please.” 

“Fine, we’ll call her family and…” 

“No. No family. She was very certain of that.” The Doctor was adamant, and Kate nodded in affirmation. 

“No family, then. Doctor, you aren’t to blame.” Kate reiterated. “I know that you’ll keep blaming yourself, but don’t. You found her, you saved her.” 

“ _Bonnie_ saved her. Isn’t that beautifully ironic? She still had the remains of a connection to Clara, and she felt something go wrong. I’m sure she’ll need some help too, Kate. For all her talk, she wouldn’t have ever hurt anyone.” She sighed. “I almost lost my Impossible Girl, and it was my fault. I came into her life and blew her world apart.” 

“Doctor…” 

A nurse lent her head around the door and cleared her throat slightly. “Ms Stewart, Miss Smith? She’s awake.” She interjected, and the Doctor froze, her mouth slightly agape as she wondered what she should say to Clara.

“Doctor… you go ahead; I’ll stay out here.” Kate smiled reassuringly.

“I…” 

“Go.” She insisted, and so the Doctor followed the nurse into Clara’s room obediently, critically noting the IV line in her hand and the oxygen mask that covered her mouth, as well as the unnatural brightness in her companion’s eyes. As soon as Clara saw the Doctor, she lifted the mask away weakly and attempted what might have been a smile. 

“What… what are you giving her?” the Doctor asked, flashing the psychic paper with a shaking hand and taking half a step towards Clara protectively. 

“Oh. Right. Well, she’s had a gastric lavage, and now she’s being rehydrated with IV saline, then there’s norepinephrine to raise her blood pressure, and…”

“ _And_? I’m not an idiot, I can see you’ve done something to her!” 

“And intravenous citalopram, to calm her down! She was agitated, we couldn’t administer anything orally and so we needed to use something to steady her!” the nurse’s voice was frightened, but the Doctor barely noticed as she rounded on her angrily.

“You’ve already poisoned her for weeks on end, she finally got clean of your drugs and now you’re giving them to her again? What are you playing at?” her voice increased in anger as she spoke, and it was then she realised that the rasping sound she could hear was Clara attempting to speak. 

“Doctor…” Clara finally managed, holding out her hand with a disconnected, dissociative smile.

“Clara,” the Doctor felt her hearts lurch as she stepped away from the nurse, taking the proffered hand and trying to smile in return. “I’m sorry, Clara.”

“Sorry too,” Clara whispered, and the Doctor reached for a water jug lying on the side, filling a cup and holding it carefully for Clara to sip, allowing her to collect her thoughts as the nurse slipped out to give them privacy. 

“Sorry you’re here, or sorry you did it?” the Doctor asked, and Clara closed her eyes wearily. 

“Both,” she admitted sadly. “I wanted to be brave, and instead I crumbled… it would be better if I wasn’t here.”

“No,” the Doctor argued determinedly. “Not ever. Everything is better when you’re around, Clara.”

“Not Zygon invasions, clearly,” Clara quipped, smiling feebly. “I just lost it, I wasn’t thinking…” 

“Clara,” the Doctor interjected. “You don’t have to explain anything. Especially not to me.” 

“I owe you-” 

“You don’t owe me anything. Not a justification, not an explanation, nothing. Except…” she paused pensively. “What did you mean? In your note, you said _there will be no revenge._ No revenge against who?” 

“Missy,” Clara said, frowning a little as she explained. “I know what you’re like, I know about your bloody hero complex, and I didn’t want you killing your only friend over something I’d done.”

“Oh,’ the Doctor said simply. “Well, there’s not any danger of that. Besides, you’re alright, so I don’t need to take any revenge.” 

“I don’t want to be alright,” Clara frowned a little. “I mean-” 

“Clara…” 

“Some days I do, but some days I don’t, I don’t know what I want, I just want things to be better-” 

“ _Clara,_ ” the Doctor interrupted. “You can be alright again; I know you can. There are people willing to help you, people who want to help and-”

“I know, Doctor. But _they_ can’t understand what it’s like.” Clara argued, and the Doctor frowned in confusion. 

“Understand what _what’s_ like?” she asked. 

“The guilt of letting you down. Because no one understands about you, or how I let you down with the Zygons, and I feel so shitty for what I did, Doctor, and I just… I can’t deal with the guilt of not being the person you need me to be, which is why I want to stop travelling for a bit.” 

The confession slipped out, the truth of the matter laying solidly between them like a physical barrier, and the Doctor could see the fear in Clara’s eyes as she wondered what her friend’s reaction would be. 

“Clara, it’s alright,” she assured her gently. “I understand what you want, and I think… I think it would be for the best if that’s what we did. Kate wants to help you, and I think… I think you should let her.”

Clara had been anticipating an argument, anticipating resistance, and she felt something akin to disappointment well up in her as her friend simply conceded to her wish without a fight, quietly permitting her to return to her ordinary human life without so much as a plea for her to change her mind. Searching for an outlet for her surprise, she bit down on her lip, the words slipping out almost unbidden. 

“You’ve been discussing me with Kate?” she tried to say angrily, her voice wobbling treacherously as she spoke, and she cursed herself internally and made a second attempt, her tone more satisfactorily wrathful. “How dare you?” 

“Clara…” the Doctor sighed wearily. “I’m not going to argue with you, because I know you don’t mean any of this. I just want you… I just want you to be OK. So be safe, my Clara.” 

“I…” 

“Goodbye, Clara.” 

The Doctor stood up, shook out her coat and left the room before Clara could see her cry.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're on the final stretch of this epic! I haven't been writing as much recently because _so much stress_ but I have ideas and so I'll try to write more over Easter.
> 
> Shoutout to The Driver, for sticking with this.
> 
> No trigger warnings for once! Yay!

Clara checked her phone absentmindedly as she made herself breakfast, already contemplating her counselling session later in the day with a sense of dread. Stirring her coffee, she flicked through her inbox idly, noting with surprise that she had an email from Kate and opening it with a sense of unease.

 

_Urgent meeting tonight, my office, 7pm._

She sighed in exasperation. She wasn’t _technically_ employed by UNIT, but since her – her mind skipped automatically over the words “suicide attempt” – _incident_ , she’d been subject to their rules and regulations, placed at their beck and call whenever they saw fit. Kate had been insistent about that much, determined that Clara wouldn’t slip under the radar again, and despite the litany of counsellors and therapy sessions that she was at the mercy of, apparently she was also expected to turn up to staff meetings. Which she wouldn’t object to, but they wouldn’t permit her to _do_ any work, as apparently even paperwork was considered too taxing for her, and so she spent her days at counselling, wandering the autumnal streets of London, or curled up in her flat, reading peacefully, somewhere between “bored out of her mind” and “relaxed.” She had expected to feel restful as her symptoms ebbed slowly under the careful guidance of her therapists, but instead all she felt was an overwhelming sense of tedium, dullness consuming her each day as she remembered, slowly, who she had once been and edged closer to becoming that person once again. 

Clara Oswald, saver of worlds. Clara Oswald, rescuer of galaxies. Clara Oswald, bringing hope to the oppressed, the enslaved, the endangered. Clara Oswald, the Impossible Girl. 

Now, thanks to UNIT, she was _possible_ , that much was certain, and she was mostly sure that she was human once more, engaging in what the Doctor would have classed as _ordinary human behaviours_ like going to Tesco, making tea and forgetting to put the bins out. She was everything her family could have hoped she would become again: steady, dependable, healthy. Not a risk to herself. Sleeping through the night. She was the person that she had needed to be, the person she had _aspired_ to be during the depths of her trauma, but she couldn’t shake a sense of dissatisfaction and unrest at her confinement to Earth. 

More worryingly, there was still darkness within her. Some nights she would wake, trembling, having woken herself with her cries and her nightmares. Some days she would catch herself scratching at her arms, and so she’d slip on the gloves that her therapist had insisted she buy, blunting the sharp edges of her nails as she ran the soft fabric over her skin instead, trying not to flinch as she remembered the way Clary had done the same, but knowing that trembling was preferable to clawing at her skin. She still couldn’t quite bring herself to bath, but she had regulated her shower habits well enough to prevent her from scouring her own skin until she bled, some of the life returning to her appearance as she took care of herself fastidiously, obsessively, determined to try and _appear_ normal in the hope that it would make her _feel_ normal. 

She looked down at her bitten nails, hovering over the keyboard of her phone, and found herself typing out a response before she could balk at Kate’s suggestion, firing off a message in seconds:

 

_See you then._

 

She stood up, stretching a little and chewing her lip as she wondered what the meeting could possibly be about. Perhaps she was due to be discharged – if that could truly be the right word – from UNIT’s jurisdiction, although the prospect of that thrilled her and frightened her in equal measure. The fear of relapse hung over her constantly, overshadowing her optimism as she considered the fog from which she was only really beginning to emerge, uncertain, blinking in the brightness of the world she found she had left behind. 

Regardless of what the meeting would be to discuss, it seemed as good a time as any to try something she hadn’t done in a long, long time, something that her counsellors had suggested she do as a means of connecting with her old self. She’d lacked the inclination before, lacked the energy or the motivation, but now she felt oddly determined to demonstrate how well-adjusted she was. Padding quietly into her bedroom, she sat at her dressing table and examined the unfamiliar rows of makeup arranged neatly in the top drawer, picking out one or two products and rolling the narrow cylinders between her palms experimentally. She didn’t fully recall the last time she had worn makeup, but her hands seemed to remember what to do and so she found herself expertly dabbing concealer, blending powder, shaping her brows and applying eyeliner with a small flick in the corners in a way that was faintly reassuring. 

If she was going to face Kate Stewart and have to argue her corner, she would damn well do so with her war-paint on. She reached for lipsticks, her hands hovering over the narrow black tubes, and in the end she settled for a subdued nude colour, applying it carefully and then blotting the colour onto a tissue out of habit. She smiled a little as she took in the end result critically. She looked like herself, and more than that, she _felt_ like herself. The old self, the one that she had been so long ago, before the mysterious man in a monk’s habit had appeared on her doorstep and crooked his fingers for her to join him in his blue box. 

She sighed, putting her head in her hands as her mind automatically skipped over memories of the Doctor as a means of self-preservation, her heart determinedly wrestling with her logic and attempting instead to focus on their time together, casting up memories that flashed behind her eyelids unbidden. She balled her hands into fists, knowing that thinking of the Doctor would bring only uncertainty and pain, but wanting nothing more than to pick up the phone and call upon her friend, check in… she exhaled slowly, knowing it was an impossibility. She had been left behind purposefully, _intentionally_ , and moreover, it had been _her_ choice, _her_ proposal initially, and her pride insisted that she couldn’t change her mind on this decision, couldn’t lose face by taking back her words. The Doctor didn’t want her in the TARDIS until she was better, and she _shouldn’t_ be in the TARDIS until she was better, and while she wasn’t entirely sure what constituted _better_ , she was sure that this wasn’t quite it. 

She stood and dressed slowly, chewing the inside of her lip nervously as she made her way downstairs with a sinking feeling in her heart. There was, of course, a sleek black Range Rover waiting for her, and she sighed at the ostentatiousness of the entire affair, at UNIT’s idea of covert, climbing inside reluctantly and trying to get comfortable on the cold leather seats. She wondered sardonically what was wrong with taking the Tube, or a bus. 

“Don’t suppose you know what this is about?” she asked the driver hopefully, but he shook his head. 

“No ma’am. Just a driver, not trusted with the big secrets.” 

“Sorry,” she mumbled, looking down at her lap and her clasped hands. “Just a bit nervous.” 

“Don’t be, ma’am. I mean, you’re legendary. You can do anything. You’re _Clara Oswald._ ” The driver smiled at her in the rear view mirror, and she tried to smile back, her cheeks aching with the effort.

“I _was_ ,” she said sadly, her cheeks flushing a little as she denied, for the thousandth time, the status that people at UNIT so blindly conferred upon her. “Once.” 

“Still _are_.” 

Clara nodded but barely heard him, lapsing into silence as they slipped easily through the London traffic and entered the Tower of London, drawing to a halt in the darkened parking garage beneath the Keep. She sat for a few minutes to gather her thoughts, unclipping her seatbelt robotically but making no move to exit the vehicle. 

“Ma’am?” the driver asked, turning to face her with a look of concern and jolting her from her reverie. “Would you like me to escort you to the office?” 

“No, it’s OK… I know the way. Thank you.” She flashed him a false smile and climbed down from the 4x4, stepping into the cool darkness before ascending the stairs to the bustle of UNIT HQ, trying to quell the feelings of nausea that were rising within her as she approached Kate’s office. She was sure this was going to be fine. She was sure it would all be some trivial matter that could be resolved in five minutes, and she’d be home in time for _Watchdog..._ or at least, that’s what she tried to tell herself, desperately repeating the mantra to herself to try and prevent her panic from incapacitating her in public. 

She knocked on the office door and heard a murmur of assent, stepping inside and immediately dropping her eyes to the floor, pre-emptively, in order to avoid what she was sure would be Kate’s stern gaze. 

“Clara?” 

Her head snapped up and she took in the figure sat at the desk, the familiar eyes, the eyebrows quirked up in a look of puzzlement as she considered Clara’s submissive body language. 

“Doctor?!” Clara asked incredulously, trying to arrange her face into something that didn’t resemble a scowl as she took in the person who she supposed was responsible for her current recovery, but equally the person she had been afraid to see, afraid to engage with, because she knew it would only make their next parting all the more difficult to bear. 

“I… Kate sent me a text,” the Doctor began uncertainly, flushing a delicate shade of pink as she spoke. “Said it was urgent.” 

“Mine was an email,” Clara said brightly, her tone entirely too casual for the occasion, and she cursed herself and forced herself to go down an octave. “She didn’t mention you.” 

“She didn’t mention you either. I thought you were off… humaning.” The Doctor coughed with embarrassment and looked at the floor, and Clara sighed. 

“Look, _you_ let me stop travelling with you!” Clara exclaimed furiously, her voice hardening as she scowled at the Doctor, suddenly filled with rage as the repressed emotions of the past month boiled to the surface. 

“ _You_ suggested it!” the Doctor bit back, meeting Clara’s accusatory look with an equally irate glare. 

“I wanted you to fight for me!” she shouted, the truth spilling from her lips before she could prevent it. “I wanted you to say I should stay…” her voice cracked treacherously on the final syllable, and the Doctor rolled her eyes. “Don’t you bloody… don’t you...” 

“Clara,” the Doctor’s voice was gentle. “You know, don’t you, you know how hard it is for me to understand you sometimes. _All_ of you. If you want me to do something, just tell me.” 

“I can’t tell you to fight for me!” she protested. “That’s…” 

“That’s my job,” Kate’s voice interjected from her computer, the screen flickering into life. Clara was irritated to notice Kate’s small, smug smirk as she surveyed the two of them, no doubt feeling self-congratulatory at the fact she had succeeded in reuniting them so covertly. “Bringing the two of you back together.” 

“Why?” the Doctor asked in confusion, turning her attention to the monitor and glaring at it balefully. 

“Because you’re both miserable as hell, and it’s driving me to distraction having to deal with it.” 

“Deal with what?” Clara probed, frowning uncertainly as she considered the possibilities of what Kate could mean. 

“She,” Kate indicated the Doctor. “Spends 90% of her time on the phone to me demanding progress reports, minutiae detail of your everyday activities, how you’re holding up. And _you_! You spend all your time reading Jane Austen-” 

“Don’t knock Jane Austen…” Clara grumbled under her breath. 

“And asking me whether Spacewoman has checked in lately, and I have to lie to you both, and seriously, _just sort your shit out._ ” 

“What… _shit_?” the Doctor asked in bewilderment.

“Doctor, she misses travelling. Clara, she misses you,” Kate said simply, shrugging. “Sort it.” 

With that, the screen went black, and both women just gaped in bafflement. Clara was the first to recover, side-eying the Doctor and then stepping forward to throw her arms around the Time Lady. 

“I…” 

“I don’t even care if you’re against hugs,” Clara said firmly. “You’re going with this.”  

“I’m not complaining,” the Doctor mumbled, freeing her arms and encircling Clara in an awkward embrace before relaxing into it, her cheek resting against her companion’s hair as she held her. “I missed you, my Clara.” 

“I missed you too, you daft thing.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, we're nearing the end...! Thank you for sticking with this one, guys.
> 
> No warnings for this chapter.

Clara sat in the armchair in the console room, sipping a lukewarm mug of tea and trying to put her finger on precisely what seemed wrong with the Doctor. Weeks of counselling and introspection had re-established her emotional compass, but even if it hadn’t, she would have been able to tell that something was bothering the Time Lady. Since they had stepped back into the TARDIS, she had barely ceased talking, hardly even pausing for breath as she swung around the console manically, chattering nineteen to the dozen and not allowing Clara a word in edgeways. While this behaviour was, in itself, not uncommon, this time her tone was nervous, agitated, and her eyes were wild as she flicked switches and typed coordinates indecisively, throwing them in and out of the vortex until the TARDIS decided it had had enough, shutting off the time rotor and grinding to a stubborn, wheezing halt. 

“Hey!” the Doctor protested, looking up at it in confusion and lightly smacking the console in irritation, which beeped grumpily in response. “That’s… c’mon, that’s not fair, don’t be like that.” 

“Doctor,” Clara said firmly, deciding to intervene and crossing the room to her friend, wrapping her arms around her waist hesitantly before leaning into the hug and sighing. She could feel the Doctor’s hearts, and she wondered what had so affected the Gallifreyan to send her into this kind of mood. “You need to calm down. The TARDIS wants you to calm down. And… and I want you to as well.” 

“I’m calm!” the Doctor argued, one hand patting Clara’s repetitively as she talked, her tone high-pitched and somewhat strangled. “I am so calm, I am calmer than a calm thing, I am amazingly calm.” 

“Doctor.” Clara stood on tiptoes and rested her chin on the taller woman’s shoulder, attempting her Teacher Voice. “You’re a crap liar.” 

“Am I really that bad?” the Doctor groaned, bringing her hands up to cover her face, and Clara laughed.

“Tiny bit. Also you’re bouncing off the walls. So… share.”

“Four weeks with Kate and suddenly you’re a counsellor?” the Doctor teased, stepping away from Clara and perching on the stairs to the upper level as she contemplated her companion with a practiced eye. She seemed happier, that much she could tell. She’d initiated physical contact, and she’d laughed, and her eyes looked brighter than they had the last time she’d seen her. Clara certainly wasn’t fixed, the Doctor knew that much, but she was perhaps a little better, a little more of her old self once more.

“No, but I’m your friend. And I know you aren’t telling me something.” Clara’s tone was bordering on accusatory, and she felt guilt twist at her stomach as she chided her friend, knowing it was the only real way to initiate a discussion with her, remembering that the Doctor – the _old_ Doctor, at least – could always be provoked by this tone. 

“You didn’t tell me lots of things,” the Doctor mumbled after a short pause, looking down at her clasped hands to avoid Clara’s intense stare. “Like about the medication.” 

“That was… that was different!” Clara stammered, frowning slightly. “That would have hurt you.” 

“But this might hurt _you_ ,” the Doctor explained pleadingly, looking up to meet Clara’s gaze and noting the concern in her hazel eyes, realising that she was, perhaps, too late to protect Clara from the burden of her troubles. “And you’re already hurt, I don’t want to… I can’t hurt you _more_.” 

“I’m getting better, Doctor. You know that, and you know that you don’t need to keep trying to protect me. You don’t need to lie to me, either.” 

“You lied to me,” the Doctor complained angrily, standing to glower down at her friend. “Loads.” 

“I didn’t tell you things, that isn’t _technically_ lying.” Clara attempted to justify, before pausing for a moment, shuffling her feet nervously as she considered how to proceed, how honest she could afford to be with her friend, and settling on a path of unwavering truth. “You’re the one woman I would never, ever lie to, Doctor. I thought you knew that.” 

The Doctor sighed, her anger dissipating, and she smiled sadly at Clara’s confession. “Oh Clara,” she murmured. “My Clara. I know. I just. I’m just worried about you.” 

“Doctor,” Clara said, reciprocating her smile and trying to appear braver than she felt. “You don’t need to worry about me.” 

“But I _do_ ,” the Doctor said quietly, chewing on her lip as she paused. “All the time. Seeing you fall apart… I just…” 

“Doctor,” Clara reiterated more emphatically, while keeping her tone as gentle as possible. “I’m alright now. Much more alright than I was. But I still need your help, I still need my best friend.” 

“I’m here, Clara. You know I am. But you need to be human sometimes too. You can’t just run away from everything here, you’ve got a _family_ , you’ve got _friends_ …” 

“I’m not running away, Doctor. Not any more. I’ll come back, you know I will…” Clara assured her. “Just… being human is kind of overrated anyway. It’s mostly just really, really boring. Or it was, until I met you.”

“But it’s _important_ ,” the Doctor stressed, looking at Clara with urgency in her gaze. “I don’t want you getting reckless or anything, I don’t want you taking risks…” 

“Being reckless is _your_ job, Doctor,” Clara teased in response. “And you do it so well.” 

“You bring it out in me!” the Doctor retaliated, and then realised with a thrill that this was banter, that they were joking around, and she felt her hearts soar momentarily at the realisation that Clara was able to find humour in the world again. 

“Well then, I’d best stick around, hadn’t I? Can’t have you getting complacent and letting a planet blow up.” Clara said resolutely, plonking herself down next to her friend. “Now. Are you going to tell me the other thing that’s bothering you, or am I going to have to do the look?” 

“What look?” the Doctor asked in genuine bewilderment, her train of thought interrupted, and Clara nudged her knee gently.

“You know the look. Come on, stop avoiding the question.” 

“I’m not!” 

“Crap liar,” Clara reminded her, bumping her again. “Spill.”

The Doctor sighed, exhaling slowly to play for time, before looking up at Clara with unbidden tears in her eyes. “It’s just… weird.” 

“What’s weird?” Clara asked, reaching for the Doctor’s hand and squeezing it reassuringly. “Me?” 

“No!” the Doctor said firmly, shaking her head furiously. “Not you. Not you more than usual. No. It’s… this.” She gestured to herself vaguely. “The… woman… thing.” 

“Oh.” 

“Yeah. Oh.” 

“Can I help?” Clara asked, her face a mask of concern as she considered the options available to her. 

“No,” the Doctor said with certainty, shaking her head again. “You just focus on yourself, that will help me.” 

“Doctor.” Clara gave the Time Lady a stern look that she vaguely remembered giving her students. “Again with the lying.” 

“I…” the Doctor paused, wondering how best to explain what she needed. “It’s just all a bit… much. Clothes and hair and… boobs and… things. How do you deal with it all?” 

“Generally speaking, by not reading crap magazines, and by shopping,” Clara admitted, shrugging slightly before she had a sudden, spectacular idea. “Hey! We could go shopping! Kate gave me a work allowance.” 

“Isn’t that for emergencies?” 

“This _is_ an emergency. You need retail therapy. Don’t argue.” Clara stood up and strode around the console assertively, typing in the coordinates of the only place she could think to take the Doctor that would have adequate shopping opportunities: Oxford Street, in her own time. She released the handbrake confidently and smiled at her friend as the TARDIS complied, piloting the craft expertly, proffering her hand to the Time Lady when they landed and smiling widely. “Come on.”

Obediently, the Doctor rose and took her hand, stepping outside and onto the bustling street with apprehension. She looked around her and then noticed the tugging on her hand and followed Clara into the nearest shop, blinking at the sudden change in lighting levels, at the relentlessly premature Christmas cheer of the interior. “Why’s it called Topshop?” she asked in confusion, as she let herself be dragged towards the escalator. “What’s top about it?” 

“Doctor?” 

“What?”

“There are rules to this trip, and they are as follows: one, don’t ask questions; two, don’t argue; and three, don’t whine.” 

“But-” 

“No buts. Just agree with me.” 

“Yes ma’am,” the Doctor concurred unwillingly, following her companion around the stark, white store, occasionally plucking an item from the racks nervously and holding it out for Clara’s approval, watching attentively as the human flicked through rails of jeans and dresses and things she called _jerseys_ , much to the Doctor’s confusion. After an hour of this, she allowed herself to be led, meekly, into the changing rooms with a pile of clothes that seemed taller than Clara, with strict instructions to _try everything_ , and _no whining._  

Sighing, she unzipped her own dress with difficulty, stepping out of it carelessly and then considering the range of garments in front of her. She groaned internally at the prospect, but dresses seemed a safe, unthreatening choice, so she obediently tried the first one on, struggling with the unfamiliar fastenings at the back, until finally she conceded defeat and stepped outside, looking at Clara beseechingly. 

“Help.” She said simply, and it was then that her friend began to giggle at the sight before her. “Clara! Not funny!” she tried to chide, but the wonderful, aching familiarity of the sound of Clara’s laughter was infectious, and soon they were both incoherent with mirth, doubled over, their sides aching as they gulped for air. 

“S-sorry,” Clara managed after a few minutes. “You just look so helpless…” she wheezed, reaching over and zipping the back of the dress carefully. She paused to wipe tears of amusement from her eyes before surveying the Doctor uncertainly, chewing her lip. “I’m not sure, do _you_ like it?” 

“It’s…” the Doctor groped for the right word, determined to try not to insult Clara’s choice. “Not very _me_. I don’t think this _shop_ is very me.” 

“Hmmm,” Clara mused, before reaching a decision. “Well, in that case, change back and we can go to Oasis. Or H&M. We’ve got all day, and all of the next day, and I am determined to find you something _nice_.” 

“Clara,” the Doctor whispered, her cheeks flushing suddenly as she made a confession. “Can we… look, this bra is super uncomfortable.” She admitted unwillingly, her voice barely more than a squeak. “Can we go and… find a nicer one?” 

Clara surveyed her with a look that might have been pity, tilting her head to the side as she considered the Doctor’s words. “Sure,” she said after a few seconds. “We can get you fitted. But you do know how they do it, right?” 

“Do what?” the Doctor asked nervously, but Clara only smiled at her blithely.

“You’ll see.”

 

~/~/~/~

 

As the Doctor stood in the garishly pink changing room, a tape measure wrapped uncomfortably round her chest, she tried very hard to remember why she had proposed this idea to Clara.

“How’s it going?” her companion called from outside the curtain, and she grimaced, hoping that her two hearts weren’t thudding too discernibly through the thin fabric of what Clara had called a cam _-_ cami-something. 

“Fine.” She managed through gritted teeth, and the assistant before her smiled reassuringly. 

“All done! I’d say you’re a good 32C, so go and see what you can find, OK?” she enthused, and the Doctor found herself nodding silently in assent, her face maroon, tugging her dress back on and zipping it up with a sense of relief. She stepped from the changing room and took in Clara’s amused expression, feeling a slight stab of irritation that her companion was enjoying her misery so intently.

“What?” she asked, her tone unexpectedly sharp, but Clara only raised her eyebrows in response. “ _What_?” 

“Seriously, you say regeneration is a lottery, but I’d say it’s going pretty well in your favour…. 32C?” Clara smirked maddeningly. “Not half bad.” 

“Clara, you’re entirely too cheerful about this entire thing.” 

“Well, it’s funny,” her companion said with a grin, linking their arms. “And also _fun._ You’re clueless, but in a kind of puppyish way. It’s endearing. Besides, I thought happy was the goal.” 

“Happy _is_ the goal,” the Doctor concurred, her face breaking into a smile despite her previous annoyance. “If you’re happy, I’m happy.” 

“Well then. Be happy I’m here to help with bras.” Clara teased, twisting away from the Doctor with a laugh and stalking around the store expertly, seizing bras that looked practical and bras that looked terrifying, bras with lace and bras with reassuring-looking straps, weighing up possibilities and occasionally discarding one or another. 

Every now and again, she would look up and meet the Doctor’s eye, and grin a little, and the Doctor felt contentment flood through her as she contemplated her Impossible Girl, contemplated how similar this Clara was to the one that the Doctor had known what felt like forever ago. When Clara danced back to her side minutes later, her hands overflowing with richly coloured garments, she frowned a little at the Gallifreyan. 

“What?” she asked the Doctor nervously. “Are you OK?”

“I’m better than OK,” the Doctor said thickly, sweeping her companion into a hug. “ _We’re_ better than OK.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Easter everyone! Have some... Festive fluff. (Hey, a holiday is a holiday.) 
> 
> Here it is... The penultimate chapter. I'll be posting the final one on Wednesday - thank you all for sticking with this!

Clara raised her hand uncertainly and knocked on the bewreathed front door thrice, shivering slightly in the frosty December air as she hopped from one foot to the other impatiently. “C’mon, c’mon…” she muttered, her breath clouding in front of her face, before the door was flung wide and there he was, framed with a warm golden glow that made her heart ache with joy. Her dad, resplendent in a novelty Christmas jumper and hat, dumbstruck as he looked her up and down in amazed appreciation.

“Clara,” he said brightly after a few moments, his face breaking into an emotional smile at sight of his daughter stood before him, smiling from the depths of her thick winter jacket. “Oh love, oh Clara, I’ve missed you so much!”

He stepped forward to take her into his arms and then froze, remembering himself, returning his arms to his sides awkwardly. She grinned in response, appreciating his well-intentioned reticence before leaning forward and wrapping her arms around him confidently, burying her face in the soft wool of his jumper. She felt him tense up uncertainly at the gesture before enfolding her in his embrace, pressing his lips to her hair tenderly as they stood locked together. “Daddy,” she said softly, pulling away after what felt like an eternity and leaning up to kiss his cheek gently. “I’m back.”

“Love, I… Clara, it’s been _months_ , I mean, you _called_ , but you should’ve said you were coming back today…” Dave began, too overcome with happiness to process his thoughts, and it was then that he noticed his daughter’s slightly blank expression and felt the need to add: “Clara, it’s Christmas Day, love…”

“Is it?” she asked, feeling anger rise in her at the Doctor’s sheer gift for messing up the most basic of dates before deciding that she she could turn this situation to her advantage by making her presence seem deliberate. “I mean. I know it is! That’s why I’m here! I wanted to surprise you all.” She grinned, scents of cooking wafting out to her. “Besides, gran always cooks too much, you wouldn’t be able to finish it between you both.”

“True,” Dave concurred with a small laugh, taking Clara’s bag and suddenly remembering the circumstances under which she had left, months previously, her eyes hollow with pain as she had walked away from the house in the summer heat. “How did you get back?” he asked with concern, looking up and down the undisturbed, snow-blanketed street in bafflement. “Did you drive?”

“No, my ah. My friend dropped me.” Clara said easily, realising it wasn’t _technically_ lying. “Around the corner, it was less snowy for her er… car.”

Dave’s face contorted into a worried frown at this news. “Don’t they have plans, love? It’s Christmas morning, they should be with family, not taxiing you about.”

“She…” Clara stopped, realising abruptly that the Doctor didn’t technically _have_ a family unless Clara counted herself as such, realising that the Time Lady didn’t even know what day it was, alone in the TARDIS. She had, she realised, been rather selfish in her social arrangements, and she knew that she could make that right. “She doesn’t, no… Can she join us?”

“Of course she can, love! Look at you, you look so well! I want to thank the person who put a smile back on my daughter’s face, so she’s more than welcome here.” Dave enthused, and Clara smiled gratefully, turning and trekking back around the corner through the snow and ice, stumbling into the TARDIS what felt like hours later, her face flushed with the effort of maintaining her balance.

“Doctor,” she panted, her face reddening in the sudden warmth of the console room, the Doctor looking at her worriedly as she tried to catch her breath. “M’fine… You’re… Christmas… invited.”

“It’s not Christmas for _ages_ yet, Clara,” the Doctor said in confusion, abruptly noticing Clara’s raised eyebrows and checking the monitors, widening her eyes slightly in embarrassment as she realised her navigational error. “Oh. Ah. My bad.”

“Well, you’re invited.” Clara said, catching her breath at last, and the Doctor frowned a little at the prospect.

“To what?”

“To Christmas. With my family.”

“Why?”

“Because…” Clara felt suddenly shy about the situation. “They want to say thank you. To you.”

“Whatever for?” the Doctor asked, wondering what she had apparently done that had been noteworthy enough to merit a lunch invitation from Clara’s family – particularly on Christmas Day – but coming up short.

“You really can be thick; you know that?” Clara sighed, rolling her eyes impatiently. “For helping me. You know. Get better.”

“But I didn’t help you,” the Doctor objected, unwilling to take credit where it wasn’t due. “UNIT helped you. And the hospitals helped you. I didn’t _do_ anything.”

“You helped a lot,” Clara explained patiently, smiling warmly. “More than you’ll know, so stop being a weird, modest space alien and come and eat food with my family like a normal human being, OK?”

“I’m _not_ a normal human being,” the Doctor said, aiming for an irate tone, but her resolve was wavering and her words lacked any real conviction. “So…”

“Technically nor am I,” Clara reminded her sternly, seizing her hand and ignoring the Doctor’s protestations as she dragged her outside, locking the TARDIS with one hand and clutching the Doctor’s tightly in the other. She glowered at the Time Lady warningly, before proceeding to all but drag her back up the road towards her house and the promise of Christmas cheer, silently thanking god that this time the Gallifreyan was clothed. “So we can be Weirdos United.”

“Least you’re a human,” the Doctor grumbled good-naturedly under her breath as Clara led her determinedly up the drive like a small child. “More than me.”

“Doctor?” Clara advised out of the corner of her mouth, her tone bright. “Shut up.” She beamed at her father. “Dad, you remember Lizzie, don’t you?”

“Of course,” Dave said warmly, taking the Doctor’s hand and shaking it. “Thank you. So much. You’ve helped Clara, and it means the absolute world to us to see her smiling like that again… you honestly don’t know what it means, I just... Please, come in, you’re more than welcome.”

In the face of such hospitality, the Doctor felt the last of her uncertainty at the prospect of Christmas with the Oswalds disappear, and she smiled winningly as she stepped over the threshold, shrugging out of her coat in the cosy hallway. “Thank you,” she murmured as graciously as she could manage. “But really, with Clara… there were other people too…”

“Oh?” Dave said, punch-drunk on happiness and only half listening as he led the pair of them down the hall and into the warmth of the living room, a roaring fire blazing in the hearth and casting flickering, eerie light around the richly decorated walls. “Well, _you’re_ here now, so, get comfortable.”

“I…”

“I insist,” Dave said firmly, indicating the deep green sofas, and Clara obediently curled up in her usual spot, hugging a pillow to her chest and staring into the depths of the flames, smiling a little as she basked in their comforting warmth. The Doctor hesitated before sinking down beside her, looking around the room and taking in the enormous Christmas tree and… “Oh, love… we didn’t… you missed present opening.” Dave exclaimed guiltily, gathering up the last of the discarded wrapping paper and casting it into the fireplace.

“Oh,” Clara said thickly, feeling a lump form in her throat as she realised she had missed out on a family tradition. “It’s… that’s fine.”

“Don’t be silly!” her dad insisted, indicating a neatly colour-coordinated bag of wrapped gifts in one corner. “We got you a few things, you can open them, let me just go fetch your gran!”

With that he bustled off towards the kitchen and Clara looked to the Doctor in a sudden panic. “We haven’t… I mean, I haven’t…”

“Clara!” her gran all but shouted from the doorway, beaming joyfully and interrupting her worries. “Happy Christmas love, I told your dad you’d be back but he didn’t believe me…” she tsked a little, rolling her eyes, and Clara felt her sadness melt away. “Should always listen to your old mum, that’s what I told him.”

“ _Gran_ ,” Clara said fondly, crossing the room and hugging the old lady tightly, closing her eyes as she relaxed in her grandmother’s embrace. “I missed you, I’m so sorry…”

“Don’t you be sorry, love. Look at you, smiling! It warms my old heart.” She pulled away a little and smiled fondly at her granddaughter, patting her cheek tenderly. “Now, who’s your pretty friend?”

“Oh,” Clara said, chuckling a little and stepping back to the Doctor’s side. “This is… Lizzie.”

Her grandmother looked the Time Lady up and down critically, before breaking into a wide grin. “You the one she went off with,” she stated rhetorically, but the Doctor nodded nervously anyway. “Well then. You’re very much welcome. We haven’t any presents for you, because my granddaughter can’t pick up a phone, but there’ll be plenty of food, and sherry…”

“Nan, we aren’t drinking.” Clara interjected quickly, but she received only a mischievous look in response.

“Well, I’ll drink on your behalf then, love.” Her gran decided, patting her granddaughter’s hand and then fetching the bag of presents from underneath the tree, placing it carefully on the rug in front of the fire as Dave returned to the room, bearing two mugs of tea and a plate of warm mince pies.

“Here we go…” he said contentedly, setting them down on the coffee table in front of Clara and then sinking into his usual armchair with a smile. “Get unwrapping, love.”

“Dad, Gran, I don’t…” Clara looked suddenly stricken again as she remembered her predicament. “I didn’t get you anything.”

“Oh love,” Dave said softly, shaking his head. “You didn’t need to.”

“You’re _back_ ,” her gran said firmly. “And you’re smiling again. And that’s plenty enough for both of us.”

“But-”

“No buts, unwrap.” Her dad commanded imperiously, and Clara dutifully took out the largest present, turning it over in her hands experimentally and admiring the neat wrapping. She shook it a little, but it didn’t rattle, and so she began to peel the paper open slowly, gradually revealing a beautiful, deep blue satchel. “It’s for… well, we didn’t know if you wanted to go back to work,” Dave explained helpfully. “But we knew that you loved that red one you had, before it got lost, and we thought if you don’t go back, you could be trendy with this. I believe it’s very _in_.”

“Oh Dad,” Clara murmured, stroking the leather reverently with a fingertip and noting the familiar, delicious smell of new leather. “It’s beautiful, thank you so much.” She took a deep, fortifying breath before continuing. “And I’ve thought about it.”

“Thought about what?”

“Going back to work,” Clara confessed hesitantly. “And I want to. I ah, I spoke to the headteacher, and I’m gonna train, then go back in a pastoral capacity.”

“In a what capacity?” the Doctor asked quizzically, secretly glad that Clara was finally returning to the school she so adored.

“Pastoral. It’s like… well, I want to help kids who are struggling with mental health... things.” Clara explained, looking around the room uncertainly. “So kind of counselling, but maybe not quite, because I’d have to do a degree. Maybe just like, advising them on what to do, helping them out. What do you think?”

“I think that’s a wonderful idea,” Dave said enthusiastically, smiling at her proudly. “You’ll be brilliant, love, and we’re here to help you.”

“I agree with your dad,” her gran concurred, nodding. “Coal Hill will be a brighter place with you back, and those kids will be lucky to have you.”

“Doctor?” Clara asked, biting her lip nervously, finding herself somehow caring the most about what her friend thought, desperate for her approval. “What do you think?”

“Oh, Clara Oswald,” the Time Lady said softly, her eyes filling with tears as she considered how far Clara had come in the past few months, how much she had overcome, and she searched carefully for the right words, her mouth twisting into a proud smile as she found the right turn of phrase.

“You’re going to be stellar.”


	9. Epilogue: Two Years Later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who's stuck with this story - I love you all! Here's the final part.

Clara crossed the road from her office carefully, one hand on the small of her back, her worn satchel banging against her hip with each step, and as she approached the door of the coffee shop, she only prayed that there would be seats inside. She sighed wistfully, one hand slipping down to cup her bump protectively as she reached for the door handle with the other, feeling her baby twist inside her indignantly and a single, tiny foot connect with her bladder. 

“Ow,” she muttered, pausing to rub her distended stomach soothingly, and it was then that a man within the café noticed her, springing to his feet and holding the door open for her chivalrously. “Thanks,” she mumbled n embarrassment, stepping into the warm interior and immediately peeling off her gloves and scarf, noting with relief that there was a sofa free in one corner and sinking into it gratefully, sighing blissfully at the sudden comfort. She checked her phone, rolled her eyes, then took out a sheath of papers and spread them across the table, resting the topmost sheet on her bump to examine the numbers printed on it in more detail.

“Your text was a terrible pun,” came a soft voice, the tone playful yet chastising. “’This café is the _place to be._ ’ I should have known.” 

Clara looked up in surprise at the speaker, smiling happily at her uncharacteristic punctuality. “Well, I _do_ work there. Besides, Gemma loves Place2Be puns.” 

“I think Gemma might be lying, Clara,” the Doctor said good-naturedly, before both women dissolved into affectionate laughter, the Time Lady helping her friend to her feet and then hugging her carefully. “God, you just keep getting _bigger_.”

“Funny that,” Clara mused, her tone deadpan. “It’s almost like I’m twenty-one weeks pregnant today.” She grinned excitedly. “We found out the sex!” 

The Doctor looked intrigued, as Clara had known she would, before _hmmm_ ing softly and frowning a little in mock deliberation. “Well, tell me after I’ve got us drinks. I want some time to decide which way I’m hedging my bets.” 

“Like you and Annie haven’t had your money on it since the day I told you,” Clara teased, before flapping her hands at her friend. “Go on. But nothing-”

“Nothing with caffeine, I know. Now: sit, before gravity takes over. I don’t fancy having to phone your girlfriend and explain that I, last of the Time Lords, let my pregnant best friend succumb to something as dull as _gravity.”_  

“Yes boss.” Clara conceded submissively, taking a seat obediently and placing the papers back into her bag neatly, extracting the ultrasound scan and laying it on her lap. She took in, for the thousandth time that day, the tiny profile of her baby’s face, one perfectly formed hand extended towards her mothers in what could have been a wave. She marvelled at the perfection of the developing infant, the small life that she had created, touching one hand to the paper and the other to her bump, wondering if the tiny child inside her knew how very loved she was already. 

“Two hot chocolates. I know you were off cream last time, so I skipped it for yours.” The Doctor sank into the seat opposite and dipped a finger into her drink before licking the foam from it slowly, grinning apologetically at Clara as she did so. 

“Fun fact: I’m actually craving dairy right now, so…” Clara reached over and switched their mugs, and to her credit, the Doctor didn’t even complain. “Now. Baby things.” 

“Small human things, yes.” 

“It’s a…”

“Boy?” the Doctor asked hopefully, but Clara shook her head, biting her lip in excitement. “Girl?”

“Yep!” Clara said with a proud smile, handing over the ultrasound scan with a flourish. “I don’t know if that means you’ve won or you’ve lost, sorry.”

“Won,” the Doctor said happily, looking down at the grainy black and white image with enthralled fascination. “But I’d be pleased either way. Look at that. What a cutie. Got your nose.” 

“Gemma said that…” Clara pulled a face. “Poor thing.” 

“Nah,” the Doctor argued. “She’s going to be brilliant, just like you.” 

Clara blushed a little, tucking her hair behind her ear with one hand. “Doctor, there’s something we want to ask you, actually,” Clara said nervously, wondering if this was something the Doctor would be willing to do for them. “Well. One thing we want to _tell_ you, and one that we want to ask.” 

“Fire away,” the Doctor said confidently, leaning back in her chair. “I’m all ears. As long as it’s not about taking you into the future, because I explained last time-” 

“No,” Clara interrupted. “It’s about… well, firstly, we want to call her Eleanor. After my mum. Eleanor Elizabeth. After your… pseudonym.” 

The Time Lady nodded slowly, contemplating Clara and Gemma’s choice. “S’a good name.” she murmured. “Eleanor Elizabeth. Great name.” She paused, suddenly nervous. “What’s the question?” 

Clara took a deep breath. “Well… we wondered if… well… we’d love you to be godmother. If that’s, you know. A thing. That you do.”

“Clara, I would consider it the highest of honours.” The Doctor said softly, sitting forward in her seat and taking Clara’s hand. “Really, it would be my privilege.” 

“Well then,” Clara said, smiling and blinking back irrational, hormonal tears before raising her mug. “To the future.” 

“And the past. And the present…” the Doctor added, clinking her mug against Clara’s, and she glared at the Time Lady half-heartedly. 

“You always did like to be impossible about things.” 

“Oh no, Clara. That’s very much your thing. And, hopefully, it’ll be small you’s thing too.” 

Clara’s mouth quirked up into a chagrined smile, and she raised her mug for a second toast. 

“To impossibility.” She toasted, and the Doctor raised her own drink.

“To impossibility.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The charity that Clara works for is a real charity supported by Jenna Coleman, details of which can be found [here](https://www.place2be.org.uk).
> 
> Thank you for sticking with this!


End file.
